Ronin Note
by Dr.Kim-chan
Summary: On a ship in 1867, an elderly samurai named Near tells a wide-eyed Linda about an evil weapon called the Death Scroll, how it changed the fate of three young boys, and nearly brought feudal Japan to war yet again. 12/18/08: Chapter 7 is up!
1. Farewell to Tokyo Bay

Title: Ronin Note

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Author's Note: I thought of this when I was doing two things at once: listening to the Samurai Champloo soundtrack and rereading the Death Note manga. There was a line from Ryuk I remember reading, about how the Kira case wasn't the only time when history was changed so dramatically by Death Notes. Then I was doing a little research for another writing project, and I picked up _Tale of the 47 Ronin_. Then I found out with a shock that the main antagonist was named Lord Kira! Coincidence? I think not!

Well, since Mello, Near (and to a certain extent Matt) are essentially avenging a fallen master, I put two and one together and started this story! Most events are parallel to the actual plot of Death Note, and I also changed some things around, and along the way I'll put in footnotes, translations, etc., so you won't get lost. (Sick of the word "note" yet?) Oh, and beware: spoilers to the end of the series (if you look hard enough). I'm also not sure of the rating. It's T for now, but we'll see…

First, however, the prologue…

* * *

"_The late Yamamoto Jin'emon always said to his retainers, 'Go ahead and gamble and lie. A person who will not tell you seven lies within a hundred yards is useless as a man'." – Hagakure_, Yamamoto Tsunetomo

* * *

She squinted, both to keep the smoke from the steamship out of her eyes and to capture the sight of the retreating Tokyo Bay, somehow believing that by it not growing fuzzy, it would last longer in her memory.

She'd heard rumor from some of the military men on deck that the city's name had been a recent change, that it used to be "Edo", and that this new name meant "eastern capital". Though the meaning of the new name captured her imagination, she preferred the old name, pining for it in much the same way as someone mourned the demolition of a cherished childhood monument. Her Japanese still not being up to par, the trick step where "k" joined with "y" was a bit much to worry about. "Edo" was easier. It spoke of something ancient, something mystical…

But business in the capital of what the natives called "Nippon" had been the same as usual. It hadn't been that long since the American forces opened up this strange and exotic country to foreign trade, and it hadn't taken long for other countries to take advantage of these new developments. She stared down into the dark blue waters lapping at the hull of the ship, hoping that whatever came of this new enterprise, it wouldn't disturb the lives of the Japanese _too _much. Too often she'd been accused of being a romantic, but it was a genuine concern.

She sighed, pushed a wayward strand of yellow hair back behind her ears, and pushed herself up from the railing. It would be quite a while until the ship returned to its native port. Her first sketchbook she filled with visual observations about the trip, all of them monotonous: crewmen, her captain father, seagulls, the endless horizons of the Pacific. The second filled sketchbook was much more interesting: their arrival at Tokyo Bay, the natives in their small fishing boats surrounding the steamship like guppies surrounding a shark, the huts and wooden houses, and when she could catch a glimpse, royals and nobles in regalia she thought to be even more beautiful than the royals of her own country. She had at least two sketchbooks left, plus a diary of events. What would she do until she returned home, until her grand adventure ended?

The heels of her shoes thumped hard against the deck floor, but she couldn't make all _that _noise by herself. She darted around, searching for the source of the ruckus, and then quickly laid her back flat against the outer walls of the cabin.

A few yards ahead of her, two uniformed men bounded around the corner stepping rather quickly, and out of line—behavior that betokened an emergency. She strained her ears, but she didn't hear the alarm that would signal a fire or a man overboard. No one was yelling out order, either. Regaining her awareness, the young woman then realized that they were carrying something between them. She'd never seen anything like it: it looked to be a bundle of white sheets, topped with the soft wool of a sheep. What on earth were they doing with…?

A hand leapt up to her chest when it groaned. Stepping back for a closer look, she made the most shocking revelation of all: the thing had a face! Its features were wrinkled, an elderly man's face, but other features gave away the true secret. He didn't belong to the Western Hemisphere.

He was Japanese.

She wrinkled her nose in disgust, picked up the hems of her skirts, and began marching in their direction. It was true that their goal hadn't been to pick up any Japanese and bring them back, either for diplomatic or personal reasons, but as a romantic she was also a champion of human rights, and a lady.

Hearing loud thumping contradicting their footfalls, the officers looked up to see the young lady charging towards them. Their faces contorted into expressions of unease, both at the fact that she was the captain's daughter and that she looked _very _angry.

"You two there!" she called out. "What are you doing with that man?"

The officers stopped and saluted with their free arms, keeping the other two in a secure locking grip with the third man between them.

"Good day, my lady. We were on our way to see the captain about this stowaway," the brunette said, his eyes narrowing at the last word as his gaze shifted to the elderly man. She followed his gaze, then had to bite back a childish giggle. The "stowaway", as the officer put it, didn't seem at all peturbed; in fact he looked rather put off that his trip had been interrupted. Either he had strong determination that could only come from life experience, or he truly wasn't aware of the fate that befell most stowaways on a ship.

"We found him hiding below deck, helping himself to our vegetables, as bold as you please!" the other officer, a portly middle-aged man, exclaimed.

"Did he show any signs of struggling?"

"No, ma'am. He came with us peacefully."

She wasn't sure whether to believe this. Being the captain's daughter, she knew more than a woman her age ought to know. They could've just as well coerced him out through more forceful means.

"Well, if that's so, then why are you dragging him about like an unruly child? I don't care if he _is _a Japanese stowaway, appropriate conduct and civility is the same everywhere," she added, already anticipating the officers' defense. "He's a helpless old man and should be treated as such. And if he was rifling through our rations, that must mean he's hungry as well."

In a final demonstration of her power, she stepped forward and wrenched the old man out of their arms. The last injustice was felt when she realized that her whirlwind movements had been too much for the man to handle; he stumbled, his knees wobbly, but with the woman's quick thinking she flung out her right arm and shoulder as support. As if they'd come to a telepathic understanding, the man immediately used this to his advantage and grabbed her for support. She raised an eyebrow; he was much lighter than he looked.

"He's weak, too, the poor thing," she mumbled. Though her voice sounded soft and compassionate, the two officers could practically hear her berating them for their poor conduct. "I'll take him back to my cabin for the moment."

The officers' eyes grew to the size of full moons, and they quickly protested, but the young woman wouldn't hear any of it. It was times like these, she came to believe, that she was glad to be the captain's daughter.

"I know he's a stowaway; I think you've made that clear enough. Regardless, right now he needs to gather his strength. I'll take full responsibility and report him to the captain once he's back in good spirits."

She said it in a tone that more or less closed the matter, and the officers reluctantly gave up custody of their charge before returning to their posts.

* * *

The old man was impressed.

He'd only met two or so women in his life that had the aura of authority like the one who saved him from inevitable punishment just now. She was surprisingly strong, too: she had managed to help him back to her cabin, open the door, and (though rather ungracefully) step in and close the door behind her. Still, her touch was softer than the uniformed men he ran into below deck. In truth his English was rather good, and he knew a few words in Dutch from his stint in Nagasaki; he'd been studying and listening for the past ten years. He just didn't know how to explain it that he had never been able to walk well since his childhood. Considering their behavior, though, he wasn't even sure if they would have cared.

Yet again, keeping quiet had saved his life.

Assured that he was now in good hands, his eyes scanned the cabin they just entered. It looked rather cramped to his foreign eyes, but after the chill of the lower decks of the ship it was cozy. The walls were unpainted, paneled wood, furnished with a few knick-knacks. A bed lined with a flowery comforter, a nightstand, and an unlit oil lamp occupied the left corner. Telescope bags and other pieces of luggage were strewn around the room, as were pieces of thick white paper torn from large notebooks. This grabbed his attention immediately. It wasn't paint and drastic brush strokes, or intricate woodblock printings, but he could tell it was art all the same. Each piece was marked with an exquisitely done picture, capturing a memory in graphite pencil.

The blonde woman quickly ushered him into a chair, then crouched down in front of him, staring at him intently.

"Do you…understand English?"

He stared back and nodded.

"A little bit, yes."

Her eyebrows flew up until they became lost in her fringe. She hadn't expected _this_. A couple of nobles in Tokyo had learned English, and even then their speech had lacked some of the structure, correct pronounciation, and propositions. His was almost _perfect_.

"Oh good! I know some Japanese myself. That should make things easier for the both of us, huh?"

She paused, then shook her head and stood up.

"Here I am, trying to teach boorish army officers manners and I haven't even told you my name." She pursed her lips. "_Wa…wa-tashi wa…Linda desu. Haji-me-mashite._"

He grinned, but it was encouraging rather than condescending.

"Pleased to meet you, Linda-san, but it's all right if you wish to speak English. I know there are the rules of the boat to live by, but I have no intention of returning to Japan. As for me, my name is Ichi—"

He paused, and Linda caught a glimpse of sadness in his eyes as he almost let another name slip.

"Excuse me…_Near_ Shirakawa." (1)

Linda's blue eyes sparkled at this tidbit of information. That was another thing Linda loved about Japan; she loved her name, acknowledging it as a gift from her parents, but Japanese names were poems of a high nature. Apparently, even though they were wont to change their names according to the circumstances, they even guarded their names with even more pride than Westerners, claiming reasons of family loyalty, pride, or milestone accomplishments in their lives.

"'Near'? What an interesting name. Why did your parents call you that?"

"No, my parents called me 'Ichiro' at birth. Someone else gave me the name 'Near'. It was necessary…to save my life." (2)

Linda let out a gasp.

"To save your life? I didn't know names were _that _important to Japanese people!"

"They're not, usually, but my fate led me to be a _samurai…_well, a _ronin_, really. But I wasn't alone. Two friends shared my fate, and they also changed their names to follow that fate, and we avenged Sensei's death to the end."

"Are they on the boat with you, or back in Japan?"

He sighed. "As it turned out, we came to face dangers even new names could not protect against. I'm the only one who survived."

Linda's jaw dropped, and she immediately pulled up another chair to sit across from him. She knew what the terms meant. A samurai was a warrior, a respected man in Japanese society, in much the same way as high-ranking officers of the army. They served under warlords, pledging their lives to them, but once their master died they were considered ronin—samurai without masters, in much the same way as dogs lost without their owners. To see so much death in a lifetime…if nothing else, that was probably why he left his native country.

An idea sparked in her mind. Suddenly timid, she asked, "Could you…could you tell me the story?"

His face looked impassive…no, _shocked _at the suggestion. Linda suddenly felt embarrassed and waved her hands around wildly.

"Sorry, that was rude of me! If it's too painful to talk about…"

"No," he breathed, a small smile sprouting on his pallid face. "That's all right. If this is repayment for sparing me from those men, then I'll gladly return the kindness, Linda-san. Besides, it's been almost fifty years. Not very many people have asked me, and I've kept it to myself, out of grief and out of selfishness, but for people to not know what almost became of Japan, for people to not know those who gave their lives to protect the peace…that's the greatest shame."

He looked up, a fire of resolve in his otherwise blank eyes.

"Before I begin, however, there are some things I hope to make clear to you first, Linda-san."

She nodded solemnly. "Yes?"

"The first is about the two friends I mentioned earlier. At the very end, they said I was the strongest, the most favored of our master, but I tell this story in their favor. I couldn't have learned what I learned and endured what I've endured without them. Their original names were Jiro Katsumoto and Mitsuo Jounouchi, but their names will be remembered as Mello and Matt." (3)

Linda nodded again.

"The second thing pertains to the changing of our names and our master's death. What we battled against wasn't simply swords and other such weapons. There are few warriors like this, but they do exist…though with more and more samurai using the guns and cannons of the _gaijin _I don't doubt that power like this may not ever exist in Japan again. There were those who were able to use what one would call…let's see…I suppose you would call it 'magic' or 'sorcery'. Even my fellow warriors and our allies used it. However, there are those who use it for good, and those who use it for evil."

Linda nodded understandably as she rose to fix two cups of tea.

"We refer to it as 'white' and 'black' magic," she said. "So you, Mello, and Matt were white magic users?"

"Yes. Our enemies—those who used the 'black magic', as you say—had obtained a particularly dangerous type of weapon, one that threatened the power of the shogunate. A twisted blessing from above, they said, though I think it was more of a curse. They called them Death Scrolls. When one's name is written on such a scroll, the person then dies shortly after."

He winced slightly as Linda dropped a (mercifully empty) teacup, which shattered upon impact. Grumbling and apologizing in erratic bursts, she gathered all the pieces she could and used a spare jewelry box to hold them as she fetched another cup. Through all this, however, she kept her wide eyes on Near.

"All they had to do was write their enemies' names on paper…and they _died_? It all seems so hard to believe."

Now it was Near's turn to nod understandably.

"That's why I wanted to mention it to you first. I couldn't believe it myself, but then…Ryuuzaki-sensei…oh, thank you."

He took the teacup and saucer gingerly in his hands. He took a sip, the tea tasting a lot sweeter than the kind he was used to, and smiled. Linda sat down with her own cup, allowing it to cool for a while as she prepared to hang on his every word.

"Let's see…I suppose I should start with how I came to meet Ryuuzaki-sensei. If I hadn't seen him that snowy day…I would've given up right there, in that village…"

* * *

(End Chapter 1)

Footnotes:

1. For the sake of the story, I wanted to give them more Japanese-sounding names, though for the most part they'll be referred to by their codenames in the story. With Near, Mello, and Matt in particular, I wanted to give them family names that started with the same letter as their real names, as well as meanings that matched their personality. With Near, I couldn't find family names that ended in 'R' (I'm not saying they don't exist, but I personally couldn't find any), so I gave him the next best thing: Shirakawa, which means 'white river' (for obvious reasons…lol).

2. The same thought went into their first names. Near was Ichiro, which means 'first son'. I'd wanted to call him Yuki, but I wanted to keep up the theme.

3. For Mello, Jiro means 'second son' and Katsumoto means 'victorious' (from the fact he always wanted to win). For Matt, Mitsuo means 'third son' and Jonouchi means 'castle from inside' (from his dislike of being outdoors).

Having Death Note "How to Read" Volume 13 is a huge help, too. It gives a lot of insight into their personalities (did you know Halle Lidner hates moths?) and it helps me decide what roles some of the more minor characters will play here. (It also said Halle likes baths, so she'll most likely be a tough-as-nails bathhouse manager.)

Anyway, from now on the story will be told in third person, but still think of it as if Near's telling the story to Linda, and once in a while they will interrupt the flow of the story. I hope you liked it so far. Review, please!


	2. Botan Bouzuki

Title: Ronin Note

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Disclaimer: Yea. The fact that I'm writing fanfiction should be a clue that I don't own Death Note…

Author's Note: Here's the second chapter (technically the first, but whatever. Let's not split hairs). Anyway, I don't have much to say except that I appreciate everyone who clicks on the link to read my story, as well as those who leave thoughtful reviews.

Like I said at the end of the prologue, now the story will be told in third-person. Keep in mind that the present-day Near is telling this story to Linda, and that until a certain chapter, "Ichiro" _is _Near.

And yes, every chapter will have a poem or a quote from a Japanese-related text in my personal collection (or what I can find online), just to add to the story.

So let's get to it!

* * *

_The mountain village solitude_

_In wintertime I dread_

_It seems as if, when friends are gone,_

_And trees their leaves have shed,_

_All men and plants are dead. – Hyaku-nin-isshu_, a poem from the Minister Mune-Yuki Minamoto

* * *

"_Ichiro...Ichiro…_"

An eye opened groggily, and closed again. A soft mumbling erupted from the padded mat. The voices were illusions…they had to be. They wouldn't trick him again…

"_Ichi-chan…_"

The white haired boy's eyes snapped open.

He looked around for a while, startled, until his gaze fell on the open doorway. Outside of the small, drafty room where he currently laid in was the main area of the house, where the typical family in this country and age cooked, mended clothes, made sandals, ate, and (especially if the family was extended) where half the relatives slept. If they could afford it or obtain it as an inheritance from their ancestors, the house could be a little bigger. The floors were dirt or straw-covered with mats strewn everywhere, the walls wooden slats, especially in the mountain villages in winter, but the _hibachi _usually made things cozy and warm.

But nothing about this house was warm. Several months ago, the infamous ronin Botan Bouzuki passed through, demanding rice and whatever valuables they had from the villagers. (1) Ichiro had been fetching water at the time, only to return to a partially demolished village with half its citizens dead. The only ones Bouzuki left alive were old men, children, and those who'd been smart enough to give him what he demanded. The vegetable patch behind his house had already been watered that day—not with the bucket he'd brought back, but with the drying blood of his slain parents.

The autumn months had passed quietly, the terrified survivors harvesting what little there was left, while the braver and fitter traveled to neighboring villages. The shares of food they sometimes brought back offered hope for their survival, but the reports they brought back were disheartening.

Apparently they hadn't been the only village to bear Bouzuki's wrath. He'd been traversing up and down this mountain range, looking for a samurai named Ryuuzaki-sensei and killing anyone who got in his way. Everyone had heard of Ryuuzaki-sensei, as well, not just around the mountains but everywhere in Japan, and in a more positive light. He was supposed to be a renowned samurai in service to the House of Watari, a prodigy from birth—even rumored to have taken part in many important battles at a very young age. It was said that Bouzuki held a grudge against him because he had also served the House of Watari, but was cast out because he "didn't carry the correct spirit".

But the most troubling of the rumors was that the two were supposed to look _completely identical_. Same blue hakama, same white robe, both barefoot, a terrible habit of stowing their hands in the slits of their hakama, with raven-black hair that looked like the wind's playhouse. However, anyone who saw them together _would _be able to tell them apart, on two counts.

The first was their fighting styles. Ryuuzaki-sensei always held himself in a defensive stance, even when he was going for an all-out attack. He killed, and he recognized its importance in the life of a samurai, but he was more restrained, only doing it when needed, when the situation was entirely to his advantage.

The second—and the most tell-tale sign—were their eyes.

Those who had been unfortunate enough to be in the village that day could vouch for this. Bouzuki's eyes were an unsettling crimson, roving, searching for a body to put his blade through. "The eyes of a demon", one of the old women had shrieked. But Ryuuzaki-sensei's were the darkest black. Not an evil black, but the darkness of midnight in summer. An abyss of hope rather than despair.

Rumors aside, Ichiro barely emerged to hear them. Ever since the attack, after completing his filial duties and burying his parents, Ichiro had holed himself up in the destroyed house, venturing out only when his stomach scrunched up from hunger and his rations ran out. This was a focus of concern for the villagers, even more so than the possibility of Bouzuki's return. The Shirakawa clan had been the leaders of the small community, and Ichiro, their only son, was very intelligent, obedient, and imaginative. Some had been scared of him at first because he had white hair since birth, but the elderly people had called it an extremely good omen, as white was a symbol of purity. This also meant, however, that he probably wouldn't be a samurai. Even if his hair had been a normal color, his personality detracted from this lifestyle. He was too peaceful, too contemplative. A scholar or a priest, maybe. If he could make it to Edo, Kyoto, or even the coastal town of Nagasaki, there would be possibility. Or would he stay here and rebuild the small Shirakawa estate? Only time would tell, but for now it seemed that he was content with dying young.

Now it was the middle of winter…around the twelfth month, Ichiro reckoned. New Year's would descend upon them soon. Maybe it had already come. However, festivities were the last thing on everyone's minds. In such a high elevation, the snows came early, and hard; the voices Ichiro thought were the ghosts of his parents had actually been the strong winds blowing through the large hole in the burnt-down thatched roof. His house was the only one that hadn't been rebuilt yet. Ichiro couldn't do it all by himself, and he politely declined any charity.

He pulled the rags closer to his body, his blue robe a poor shield against the cold. He had a couple of radishes stashed somewhere, but he wasn't hungry yet. Tucked in another mat were a few toys, among them his favorite: a cloth samurai doll sewn for him by one of the elderly women of the village a few years ago. He knew he was probably getting a little too old for toys, but this doll in particular had been his only companion and a source of comfort.

As for his destiny in life, Ichiro himself was both entranced and repulsed by the bloody, mundane path of the samurai. After Bouzuki's raid he didn't mind death as much, thinking over it every night, but it was a rather unclean thing, something that Shinto's _kami_ forbade. However, contrary to what everyone believed, he hadn't closed himself off completely from the world. He heard the stories people brought in from the neighboring provinces. More and more, with nothing else to do but survive, the villagers imported and exchanged tales about Ryuuzaki-sensei, and more and more Ichiro dedicated all of his imagination to capturing the legend's image in this doll. When he could gather his strength, he took the doll out from its hiding place and swept it across the floor, making it wander through valleys and farming towns, making it fly short distances, holding an imaginary sword that cut through menacing enemies such as Botan Bouzuki—

"Ichi-chan!"

He clambered up to his knees. He thought that had just been the wind calling his name, but that was definitely a human voice. He stood up and walked out of the room, his courtesy propelling him to greet his guest.

He stopped outside, where the wood floor stopped at a ledge before descending down to a dirt floor. Tiptoeing around the wreckage was an old woman in a plain short-sleeved kimono with a geometric print running down her legs. Straw sandals were strapped to her knobby feet. Ichiro recognized her as the widow Ishida, the same woman who made him the samurai doll. Since her husband died in battle years ago and her two sons set out to find their fortune in Kyoto, she made and mended garments not only for herself but for the entire village. She was headstrong, ornery, the interim leader of the village, but most of all she loved children, and she regarded Ichiro in particular as a favored grandson.

"Good morning, Baa-san."

"Good morning, Ichi-chan. I hope I'm not intruding on you at this hour."

Her gravelly voice carried a tone of sadness, and Ichiro was observant enough to notice.

"Is anything the matter?"

"…I regret to tell you, Ichi-chan, but Miura-san passed away last night."

Ichiro hung his head. "I see."

"Fortunately, the ground hasn't gotten too hard. We'll bury him today with the others. I came today to see if you would like to help us with the preparations for the burial. Also, Anzai-san's supposed to return from Mitsusando today with some fish and more news about Bouzuki's whereabouts."(2)

She looked him over carefully. "Do you have any sandals? There's a little snow on the ground, but it's still very unfavorable for one's feet."

Ichiro shook his head, and Ishida-san sighed, taking out a fresh pair from under her robes, as well as a new blue and white checkered robe, and setting them in front of the young boy with a certain degree of formality. As Ichiro picked up both articles of clothing and slipped them on, Ishida sighed again, this time with relief.

"Thank goodness. So my request to Kazama-san proved fortunate."

After he stretched a little, Ichiro followed Ishida-san through the piles of fallen roofing material and into the outside world.

The village was very small, with only one main road and small, dirt-packed alleyways between houses and gardens. The steady inclines, hidden footpaths, and precipices in the backdrop were dusted with two inches of freshly fallen snow. The town laid right in the middle of a narrow valley, dotted only by a handful of communities similar to this. The nearest water source, a deep stream fed by annual snowmelt, was a little over three miles away. Any other time, the surroundings would have been too beautiful to ignore.

Ishida-san shuffled towards the east, where the sun had already begun rising over the faraway ridge. Other people were either inside tending to a meager breakfast, or outside visiting. The atmosphere was somber as usual, but some turned towards the sight of Ichiro and smiled faintly. Ishida-san visited him every morning, and it was everyone's greatest fear that one morning she'd find his body defeated by cold and hunger.

They stopped at a house smaller than Ichiro's, its repairs to the fence and a portion of the south wall all but finished. Ishida-san called out, and right away a woman a few years younger than her came out to open the gate. The woman's face was a stone mask: the very picture of mourning.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your time of mourning. I've come back with Ichiro."

"Thank you so much for help, Ishida-san, and I apologize for not having much to give to our guests. What with the attack on us in the early fall and the overall poor harvest this year, there isn't much to go around."

"I understand. Anzai-san is supposed to come back today. I wonder what's keeping him—"

The old lady's sentence was interrupted by three muffled sounds, all of them growing louder by the second. Right away Ichiro could identify them: screaming, maniacal laughter, and the pounding of a horse's hooves.

Under the weak light of the sun was a strange and unsettling sight: Anzai-san running away from a man riding a bridled horse bareback. The one on the horse (the source of the laughter) had a sword raised, his white robe and blue hakama flying, his hair tossed around his ears and contorted face. Even though he'd never seen him before, the horseman seemed familiar.

A fraction of a second later, someone put a name to the frightening face.

"_BOUZUKI!_"

Bedlam suddenly broke out in the village as everyone ran for cover, others either defenseless or too scared for their own lives to help Anzai-san. Ichiro blinked as Ishida-san grabbed his arm with a strength that didn't belong to a seventy-year-old woman and dragged him into the safety of the Miura household. Before the street escaped his sight completely, Ichiro looked on with a terrible fascination as Bouzuki brought down his sword in a single sweep and chopped Anzai-san in half. The unlucky man's hips separated from his legs in a dramatic burst of blood and spilled intestines. Some of it splattered on the horse and Bouzuki's face, but neither seemed to mind. If anything, Bouzuki enjoyed it, running his tongue along the top of his chin.

The only others in the house had been Miura's widow's two daughters, along with the dead body laid out in the back room. Everyone living hurried past the lit brazier in the middle of the floor and huddled in a corner as the sound of hooves reached the center of town. The chinking in the new wall hadn't been put in yet, so the murderous ronin was still in plain sight.

"You saw what happened when you try to track me down, eh, you wretched vermin?!" he said, still laughing. "Come on out, or I'll come in and collect your heads!"

Ichiro looked at Ishida-san. She looked hopeless, as was the current situation. From what they witnessed, he would easily carry out his threat.

Slowly, reluctantly, everyone poured out of the houses they had taken cover in. His arrival had been so sudden, the sight of others coming out the houses of those they weren't even related to was nothing if not a little comical. Now that he was closer, Ichiro could verify the rumors for himself. It was Bouzuki, all right. He scanned the timid crowd with eyes as red as the blood smeared on his lips.

"If you wanted to find me so badly, you should've just waited," he joked, his voice quieter now that he had everyone's rapt attention. "I would've just as well left you alone if you hadn't sent your little spy. My little game is not to be interrupted, and I don't want _anyone_ getting between me and Ryuuzaki-sensei. Now I want to know: who sent that man to Mitsusando?"

To everyone's horror, this was the one moment where Ishida-san's well-known bravery decided to kick in. Lifting her hands from Ichiro's shoulders, she parted the crowd and stepped up to the horse. The demonic grin crept back onto Bouzuki's face, and he leaped down to meet her. At once, Ichiro noticed the strange stance he took when his uncovered feet hit the ground. He was much taller than her, but his back curved in such a way that his face came to a more equal level. One hand cradled the hilt of his now-sheathed sword, with the other hand doing one thing a well-cultivated samurai shouldn't do: use the slits of his hakama like pockets.

"So it was _you_, Baa-san…"

"I sent Anzai-san to get fish for us, that's all. Whatever else he asked for wasn't my intention. We have no rice, barely any vegetables, and Mitsusando's closer to the river. We never wanted you to come back here. It's your fault he had to leave anyway!"

Bouzuki's smile shrunk into a grimace.

"Well, then. I guess Anzai was just lucky practice. I know who I really should kill now…"

Ichiro suddenly felt sick as everyone grasped the implication of Bouzuki's statement. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, and slid it out. The tempered steel, still messy from his attack on Anzai-san, glinted in the weak winter sun. Bouzuki swung it out, and Ishida-san stood rigid, prepared for the inevitable.

Ichiro wasn't so resolved.

His mind didn't have time to catch up with his body's impulsive actions. Everyone shrieked as he pushed Ishida-san into the unsuspecting arms of a nearby villager and slammed his shoulder into Bouzuki's chest. The shocked ronin stumbled back into his horse, which reared up and fled in terror, briefly scattering the villagers.

When Ichiro finally had the second to think, he found himself crouched near the ground, Ishida-san safe at the moment, with Bouzuki's sword in his possession.

And right in front of him was a very pissed off Botan Bouzuki, his red eyes boring down on him like the Buddhist King of Hell himself.

Immediately Bouzuki picked himself off of the ground, not so much worried about his runaway horse as he was about the upstart, white-haired adolescent who dared steal his sword. In desperation, Ichiro arranged his body in the best fighting position he could, the tip of the sword pointing towards the wild-haired man.

Seeing that Ichiro was far from experienced, Bouzuki simply laughed.

"You think you're a match for Botan Bouzuki, a disciple from the House of Watari? Not even Tokugawa can defeat me! (3) We were taught fighting techniques you couldn't even dream of…let me demonstrate…"

Bouzuki held out an open hand. At first Ichiro was confused; he wasn't about to let go of the sword. At the minute it was his only means of protection against this terrible man.

And then it happened.

The crowd around the two mismatched opponents gasped as the sword began to wobble. Ichiro's mouth fell open and his body wiggled in rhythm to the moving sword, the vibrations growing stronger. As his mind blurred and lost track of the events around him again, the sword literally _flew _out of his hands…

Bouzuki flicked a crooked wrist…

Instantly Bouzuki suddenly became that much taller than Ichiro, but only because the man had somehow manipulated the sword to fly over Ichiro's head, sneak up behind him and stab him in the legs. Shrieks rose from the crowd, indistinguishable from the boy's own cries of pain. Ishida-san came forward again and tried to help him up, but it was too painful, and he collapsed on the ground again. Bouzuki watched on with interest as blood flowed from the boy's calves, flicking his wrist again so that the sword returned to his hand.

"I have to say, though, you have more guts than most boys. I'll give you the kindness of a beautiful death…"

Ichiro's shoulders tensed up as Ishida-san's grip on him tightened, his mind blank.

A hard wind buzzed briefly in his ear; it was so hard that Ichiro almost thought a bird had flown past, but then he heard Bouzuki grunt loudly. He looked up to see the ronin clutching his arm in pain, a single arrow wedged into the spot above his armpit.

"Bouzuki!"

Everyone turned at the sound of a female voice. At the end of the street was an even stranger sight than Anzai running from a demonic-looking warrior on a horse. The nearest Shinto shrine had to be at least ten or so miles away, and priestesses only used their bows and arrows in rituals. None of this, then, explained an angry priestess standing with her bow drawn in preparation to shoot again.

But it was the two people behind the out-of-place priestess that caught everyone's attention.

Everyone had been in an uproar about Ichiro's damaged legs, so most of them didn't even hear the two other horses accompanying her. On one of the horses was an elderly man with a handlebar moustache, dressed in a white robe and the weather-appropriate underrobe, layered with a black haori with a household's crest embroidered on it in white. His stockinged and sandaled feet stuck out from under black hakama. On the other horse…

Ichiro did a double-take.

He did look almost exactly like Botan Bouzuki: a ruffled white robe, no underrobe, blue hakama with bare feet, wild hair with a strange posture…

But his eyes…they looked like empty well bottoms…soft and encouraging…

They were truly the eyes of the legendary Ryuuzaki-sensei.

(End Chapter 2)

Footnotes:

1. Yes, Botan Bouzuki is indeed Beyond Birthday. You didn't think I'd leave him out of this, would I? I still haven't read "Another Note" myself, but I've heard enough to know he's still a nut-job. The decision on his name, however, came about mostly from sound rather than meaning. Botan means 'peony' (though it can also refer to wild boar meat), and 'Bouzuki' is made up of the characters for 'hope' and 'moon'.

2. Mitsusando means 'secret mountain pass'. I wanted to give it a name but still give the area where Near lived an unassuming atmosphere. And to my knowledge, no such village named Mitsusando existed.

3. The story takes place during the Tokugawa Era, also known as the Edo Period (1603-1867). The Emperor didn't have any real power at this time, but either way this is Bouzuki's way of bragging, as the shogun was supposed to be the highest-ranking warrior/government official.

Hope that wasn't too much of a history lesson for you. Anyway, I should have the next entry up soon, so wait around. In the meantime, read, review, and enjoy!


	3. Flames

Title: Ronin Note

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Disclaimer: (points to Ohba and Obata) They did it! (runs away)

Author's Notes: All I can say is…finally, some action, and a HUGE apology for the previous chapter. I got my facts mixed up. If Near's an old man in the 1860s, then L couldn't have been in the Battle of Sekigahara. Also, Heian-kyo had long since changed its name to "Kyoto" by then. The bulk of this story actually takes place around the mid-1700s, during the Tokugawa regime. So I fixed that right up. Sorry for the mix-up…and speaking of Near, already we're going to have an interlude by Near and Linda. As you'll see, any interruption by them will be in italics, while the actual story will be normal text.

Also, this chapter mainly borrows from NISIOISIN's Death Note novel, "The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases" (which I got a couple of weeks ago; it's awesome), so there may be spoilers, but nothing real significant. Those who've already read it might get a chuckle, though. For those who're REALLY behind on Death Note, I suggest you stay away. This fic will cover every major event through the end (not accurately of course, for sake of the story, but spoilers all the same).

Now, the battle!

* * *

"_When one has made a decision to kill a person, even if it will be very difficult to succeed by advancing straight ahead, it will not do to think about going at it in a roundabout way. One's heart may slacken, he may miss his chance, and by and large there will be no success. The Way of the Samurai is one of immediacy, and it is best to dash in headlong."_ – _Hagakure_, Yamamoto Tsunetomo

* * *

"_He just…_took_ the sword out of your hands? Like that? And it _flew_?" Linda gasped._

_Near nodded, starting to enjoy recounting his journey in spite of himself. "Yes. The House of Watari was a school that taught one how to fight with their mind as well as their body. What Bouzuki used on me was the Bloodless Hand technique, a signature move of those from the House of Watari. You could master your sword while leaving your hands free to defend yourself or fight barehanded. Would you like to see?"_

"_Really?"_

"_Would you like another cup of tea?"_

_Linda blinked in confusion. "Yes, but you're my guest. I should—"_

_She was promptly silenced by a sudden determined glare coming over the old man's face. He raised his hand and made a gesture as if inviting someone to come and sit with them, but instead the teapot sitting on top one of the tables rose into the air and hovered towards them. Linda could only sit with her mouth hanging open as Near made a couple of deft motions with his fingers, and the teapot filled her cup back up to the brim before he sent it back to the table._

"_I've never seen anything like that!" she exclaimed when she finally found her voice again._

"_I didn't either until then, and it took me a while to learn it myself. Unfortunately, I had to realize its existence the hard way. After my encounter with Bouzuki, I had much difficulty walking for the rest of my life."_

_His hardened tone indicated that he didn't take well to sympathy, an attitude most likely garnered from adapting to this disability—and now that she considered it, if he was formerly a warrior, certainly it had to have taken _some _amount of ingenuity to fight—but Linda couldn't stop herself from tilting her head in such a gesture._

_But just as quickly, her interest returned to the story._

"_Oh! But who was the priestess? Did Bouzuki die?"_

_Near paused, and then lifted his chin as if he expected the ceiling to field this question._

"_Her name—the one she used to introduce herself, anyway—was Shouko Maki, of the Shinofuyu Shrine. Ryuuzaki-sensei's concerns laid mostly with the mundane world; any matter that transcended his understanding, he consulted her. Bouzuki happened to be one of those matters." Noticing Linda's quizzical gaze, he added, "The word 'Shinofuyu' is actually three words: 'shi', 'no', and 'fuyu'. 'Shi' means death, 'no' means of, and 'fuyu' means winter."_

"'_Death of winter'?" Linda guessed._

"_Close." Near's mouth surrendered a small smile. "In Japanese, 'of' often implies that the word _afterwards _is the possessive. It's actually 'winter of death'." (1)_

_Linda shuddered. "Either way, it sounds rather depressing—not to mention frightening."_

_Near said nothing, already aware of most Westerners' attitudes towards death. In Japan, death was nothing to be feared, especially if one aspired to be a samurai; in most cases it was a welcome change from the uncertainty, shame, and frivolity of life. Most on the other side of the Pacific, on the other hand, seemed to cling to the illusion of their earthly years._

_His reverie was then broken, but not entirely, as Linda asked another question._

"_Is she still in service to the shrine?"_

_Near's chin dropped, and Linda knew what the answer would be even before he spoke._

"_It was a while after Ryuuzaki-sensei. Strong as she was, eventually Kira-sama obtained her true name as well, and sacrificed it to the Death Scroll," he said, mixing world-weariness with the extra venom he injected into the name 'Kira-sama'._

"_Kira-sama?" Linda asked._

_Near suddenly became aware of his slip-up and shook his head vigorously. _

"_But I'm advancing the story too far. I didn't know of Kira-sama—and Kira-sama barely knew of himself—until after I became acquainted with the House of Watari, and before that happened, Ryuuzaki-sensei had to settle his score with Bouzuki…"_

* * *

It was often a misconception, a romantic notion of the upper classes, if you will, that a face-off between two samurai was a prolonged moment in which the two combatants spouted off any final regrets, grudges, and lamentations to each other. Then the dramatic draw of swords, the flash of silver, the fall of a single _sakura _petal or snowflake (depending on the season), and, if the two were equally matched in skill, the battle itself would either be won in a single brilliant swing or a hundred false starts.

But the warriors of the House of Watari, particularly Ryuuzaki-sensei, eschewed such poetical nonsense. Every consideration to every battle had been made in the mind beforehand. This would be no exception.

Botan Bouzuki had been a source of much aggravation and shame for Ryuuzaki-sensei over the past few years. To some degree, Bouzuki couldn't help but mimic his appearance, but when he started to claim allegiance to the House of Watari and use Ryuuzaki-sensei's name on a couple of occasions, he had to be stopped. The problem, however, laid in the rogue warrior's very origins. This wasn't even Ryuuzaki-sensei's first fight with Bouzuki, and from those past skirmishes he determined—probably for the first time since he began training—that Bouzuki was too much to handle on his own.

It was also common belief that it was shameful if revenge wasn't taken by one's own hands, but that was yet another line drawn between Ryuuzaki-sensei and the others. Unlike Bouzuki, he wasn't stubborn; he knew there were things in this world even his mind could not wrap around, and he didn't shy away from help. If he was looking for decorum and accolades, he would stop putting his hands in his hakama, and he wasn't going to do that any time soon. Shouko would deliver the final blow, and the matter would be closed. That was all he wanted.

All things considering, the atmosphere couldn't help but lend itself to the psychodrama. A few stray snowflakes blown off from nearby slopes sparkled in the air. The villagers had long since retreated to the safety of their huts after Shouko commanded everyone to clear the way, and no one dared to say anything to break the threads of tension wavering in the winter air.

Everyone, of course, except for Ryuuzaki-sensei.

"Watari-sama."

The elderly man dismounted from his horse and strolled up to his accomplice.

"In the fifth house on your right you'll find the boy Bouzuki injured. Please tend to him," Ryuuzaki-sensei requested. Without another word, the man quickly located the house and slipped inside.

Up until that moment, Ryuuzaki-sensei hadn't done anything to suggest that he wanted to fight, but as soon as his master escaped harm's way, he wrapped his bony fingers around the hilt of his sword. Even this object was a legend in its own right; most samurai did have a special, almost reverent attachment to their sword, and naming them wasn't too uncommon, but that was usually only after the sword had gained a reputation. The House of Watari believed in naming one's sword right from the start, to further develop that bond to more than a physical level. With the school's best student as its handler, Sweet Transience certainly carried a bond. It wasn't sure if the same could be said for Bouzuki's sword, Red Jigabachi. (2) The name certainly seemed to fit: the blood from both the innocent man returning from Mitsusando and the young man mixed together on the metallic surface, shallow streaks left from when, at one point, Bouzuki halfheartedly tried to lick the tip of the sword clean. (3)

That sword, and the man that wielded its power...they no longer belonged to this world.

With this one thought motivating him, Ryuuzaki-sensei knitted his eyebrows together, a classic signal of summoning great concentration, and Sweet Transience slipped out of his hands. As if it were a drum starting a choreographed dance, Bouzuki grinned maniacally and rushed toward his opponent as Shouko leaped out of the way and fired a second arrow. The red-eyed _ronin_ dodged this arrow effortlessly, but neither Ryuuzaki nor Shouko were worried. Usually Bouzuki would be incensed at the thought of someone interfering with his ongoing feud against the only person he recognized as his equal, but now that he was in the thick of battle, he was too elated to notice the priestess.

Smart but narrow-minded—a deadly combination.

Sweet Transience's blade orbited around Ryuuzaki-sensei, defending him from Bouzuki's wild but calculated swings. Palms down, his _hakama_ rustled as Ryuuzaki-sensei bent his body and delivered a flurry of kicks, temporarily forcing Bouzuki to go on the defensive. Visibility worsened as the battle threw up clouds of powder snow, the clash of metal on metal ringing not only in the ears of the two samurai, but also the ears of the villagers cowering in their huts.

Through the chinks in the Miura household's south wall, Ichiro could barely comprehend what was going on outside, partly because his attention was divided between the battle and the elderly man, who, after asking the widow Miura's permission, was now using the teapot to boil water. Seemingly oblivious to the furious struggle outside, Watari-sama's moustache twitched as he waited for the right moment to add the leaves he'd procured from a pouch in his belt. Either his demeanor spoke of complete dedication to his duty or complete confidence in Ryuuzaki-sensei.

Taking care not to move his legs, Ichiro pushed himself closer to the wall to get a better view. His mind easily kept up with every move, every block and swing the hovering swords executed. He also noticed the priestess, apparently reserving a third arrow for the perfect moment.

But when would that moment come?

Ryuuzaki-sensei saw the same thing Ichiro did. He was far from tired, but this fight had to be ended succinctly. He braced himself and made his move.

With Sweet Transience covering his flank, Ryuuzaki-sensei fended off Bouzuki with a couple more kicks. Keeping Bouzuki's interest, he continued circling him...circling him…

Circling him…

An almost indistinct 'swish' cut through the air again…

Bouzuki caught Red Jigabachi in mid-air and stepped back, astonished. As Sweet Transience fell to the ground with a resounding 'clang', Bouzuki kept a smiling eye on the tip of an arrow penetrated Ryuuzaki-sensei's upper chest. His knees buckled, yet his facial expression spoke little of the real pain the injury should've caused, but since this was Ryuuzaki-sensei he was dealing with, the pain probably didn't mean anything to him. Ichiro could almost hear the gasps of his fellow villagers; what did this mean?

What was even more surprising was Bouzuki's reaction.

Stepping past Ryuuzaki-sensei, Bouzuki regained a firm grip on his sword and started to charge towards Shouko, who had sat crouched low to the ground at a distance behind them since the fight began.

"Wretch!" Bouzuki yelled. "Ryuuzaki-sensei was to die by _me_!"

Her face remained passive, even as the wild ronin's blade flashed in the morning light. Her hands lifted, her fingers moving and thrashing against each other in complicated movements…

In the corner of his eye, Ichiro caught Ryuuzaki-sensei getting up from the ground and clasping his own hands together, a paper charm impaled on the other end of the arrow…

"Chain of Fate!"

"_Kurayami…hikari…soshite sono no aida de osaru yuki. Kami wa watashi no negai o kikimashita. Kono aku o seifuku shinasai!_" (4)

What happened next was nothing Ichiro could have imagined; it would be a while before he understood the brilliant tactics that went into this seemingly random chain of events, and it would be even longer until the tactic Ryuuzaki-sensei used in this battle would be needed again.

Until then, the white haired adolescent could only watch, slack-jawed, as both warriors were swallowed by white, black, and blue flames. The atmosphere of the silence-wracked village was now broken only by the crackle of the supernatural fire. No heat seemed to emanate from them, as the snow at their base stayed sprinkled around their feet. The shocking spectacle lasted for at least half a minute more until both bonfires died down, and the final score of the battle could be taken into account.

All that was left of Botan Bouzuki was Red Jigabachi.

Ryuuzaki-sensei tensed up briefly to pull the arrow out of his chest, but he didn't so much as utter a grunt. The priestess gauged the situation before rising up from the ground, walking over to the black-haired man, and holding out a supporting arm. Without concern for his own pride, he gladly took it as his other arm reached down to grab Sweet Transience, and the two slowly walked over to the house Watari-sama was holed up in.

Ichiro tore his eyes off the wall as his objects of interest stepped through the front door. The injuries in his legs seemed a distant memory as the surrealism of the situation hit him full-force. Ryuuzaki-sensei was an image, a legend hundreds of miles away fighting worthy warriors in open fields. He couldn't possibly be a lanky, barefoot young man in a wrinkled blue hakama with a bloodstain in his robe, calmly sitting beside the hearth. Shouko was a little wordier, excusing herself as she took a seat at his left. Watari-sama had put in the leaves a few minutes ago, and was now waiting for the medicine to fully formulate.

"It'll be ready in a couple of minutes," Watari-sama said apologetically. "I hope you're not too terribly hurt, Ryuuzaki."

"No. Maki-san's aim was perfect. It was deep enough to penetrate without falling out, but positioned high enough above my heart for it to be no more than a minor injury." Ryuuzaki-sensei then turned to the woman in question. "All my gratitude, Maki-san. This matter could not have been resolved without you."

Shouko shook her head. "That's not necessary. If it was all I could do…"

"So you _are _the one, then? The Ryuuzaki-sensei they speak of?"

Everyone turned their heads towards Ishida-san, who hadn't said anything since she moved Ichiro into the house. She didn't say anything to Watari-sama, instead reading his body language as well as taking note of the fight outside, but now that she was certain no one was in danger any longer, she found it prudent to speak freely—if not a little brusquely.

However, Ryuuzaki-sensei did nothing more than look at her with the eyes of an owl and nod his assent.

Ishida-san tilted her head—probably sizing him up—and then she rearranged herself on her knees and bowed.

"I am the leader of the village. I can see you had your own reasons for confronting Bouzuki. Regardless, I thank you for getting rid of that horrible man—and my personal gratitude for saving Ichiro's life."

For the first time, Ryuuzaki-sensei turned his attention towards the white-haired boy. For a moment, something flickered in those deep pools.

That single flicker would draw Ichiro into something larger than himself.

* * *

(End Chapter 3)

Footnotes:

1. Hopefully that's correct. I derived the name mainly from the scene in the Death Note anime, where, right at the moment Naomi gives Light her real name, the single snowflake falls.

2. Name of the swords: yeah, get used to me calling most swords in this story by a name and not always just 'sword' or 'blade'. I had fun thinking them up, as well as the abilities of most of the warriors in the story. Ryuuzaki-sensei's is "Sweet Transience", partly self-explanatory, but also because L has so many identities, his existence is often an issue, and he wasn't afraid to die in the name of justice. As for Beyond Birthday (Bouzuki), "Red Jigabachi". Red for blood, of course, and _jigabachi _means "digger wasp", an insect known for masquerading as certain species of bees and some other insects. Hm, who does that sound like?

3. I wasn't sure if it was the creator's intention for Beyond's fascination with strawberry jam to be synonymous with his love of blood and killing, but here I made them one in the same.

4. I checked and double-checked, mostly on Babelfish, to see if I had this right. I know it doesn't get all the tenses right, so I compensated for some of that. Roughly, this translates into "Darkness, light, and the snow that falls between them. The gods have heard my pleas. Vanquish this evil!"

See you in Chapter 4!


	4. New Year, New Life

Title: Ronin Note

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Disclaimer: Don't own Death Note. For that matter, I don't own "Tale of the Forty-Seven Ronin" or any of the poems/miscellaneous texts I quote in each chapter. There, I admitted it!

Author's Note: Not much to say except thanks to my readers and reviewers…and I'm finding so many good quotes, it's hard to decide whether to base the chapter on the piece or vice versa. This one was a little of both. Anyway, happy reading!

* * *

_The year begins_

_On New Year's Day_

_Our life is now._ – a haiku by Masaoka Shiki

* * *

Life began to retain measurement and meaning.

Two days had passed since the spectacular showdown between Ryuuzaki-sensei and Botan Bouzuki, and since then the villagers had found out that New Year's Day was but a stone's throw away. The food rations were indeed paltry, but as Ryuuzaki-sensei gave them and all the other victims of Bouzuki's senseless brutality their long-awaited vindication, there was indeed cause for celebration.

Even then, Ryuuzaki-sensei solved the problem of resources by sending Watari-sama to Mitsusando with a pouch half-full of gold coins. Ichiro remembered that afternoon vividly, how the children (and some of the adults) had stared, wide-eyed, as the hunchbacked samurai passed the small fortune to his companion as if gold coins merely sprouted out of the ground and told him to buy a decent supply of food, water, building material, and fireworks…and if needed, a cart to carry it all.

However, for Ishida-san, it was all overkill. If she ever had her reservations about the strange visitors, they dissipated moments after the fight. Ichiro would never forget what Ryuuzaki-sensei said after Ishida-san gave her thanks…

* * *

"…_I see we came at an inopportune time," he had said, his eyes sweeping over the small living space until they found the prone body of Miura-san lying at the back of the room. "I'm sorry for your husband's passing."_

_He paused, and then his thumb reached up to meet his gnawing teeth, as if this social faux pas was a great source of anxiety for him. Whatever he was thinking, the priestess decided she would further mend the situation._

"_I must also apologize," she said, bowing slightly. "We haven't properly introduced ourselves. I am Shouko Maki, of the Shinofuyu Shrine."_

"_My apologies as well. I am Watari," the elderly man said, bowing his head._

_Now _this _no one could believe. It was enough that Ryuuzaki-sensei was here in the flesh, but his teacher, the founder of the esteemed House of Watari, a legend in his own time? Many tales were also told of him and his sword, called Pure Chasen. (1) Though it was now safely tucked away in a pale green sheath and strapped to his side, it was a remarkable weapon whose abilities far surpassed its humble name. Ishida-san raised an eyebrow, but said nothing to contradict this matter. If Ryuuzaki-sensei was here, that was proof enough._

_The medicine finished boiling. Watari asked for strips of cloth, which one of the Miura daughters promptly fetched, and Ryuuzaki-sensei took the opportunity to speak again._

"_If it is not too much trouble, we would like to stay for a couple of days."_

_Ishida-san gave her response instantly. "I should say you're not leaving so soon. That chest wound looks serious. I know your reputation precedes you, but for traveling long distances it simply won't do."_

"_Yes, you're correct, but New Year's is also approaching, and it wouldn't be wise to travel. Supplies will be low all around."_

_He looked at the corpse again. "Maki-san, I know it is not fitting for Shinto, but seeing as you're the only religious authority here, is there any way you can provide a burial service?"_

_Shouko nodded, her expression as resolute as ever. He exhaled, the slight sound marking his approval, and then he turned to Ishida-san._

"_Since it is apparent I'll be staying, the only problem now is to repay your kindness—"_

"_You already have," Ishida-san said tersely._

_Ryuuzaki-sensei shook his head vigorously, continuing to bite softly at the nail of his thumb._

"_Bouzuki is an outcast from the House of Watari. We had believed we'd cleansed our hands of the matter after we sent him out, but it did not change the fact that he claimed us as his home of allegiance, neither did it change the fact that he learned many powerful secrets from us. Too long we ignored the problem, and day by day he corrupted those secrets and used them for terrible purposes until we finally realized he was still our responsibility, and would remain as such until he was defeated. Merely by involving the villagers here, in Kyoto, Nagasaki, Edo, all along the Nakasendo…even after defeating Bouzuki, we haven't fully absolved ourselves of our transgressions..." (2)_

* * *

…Something had stirred in Ichiro's chest at that moment. Compassion…sympathy…respect…he couldn't label the feeling so accurately, but it returned every time he recalled the look in the owl-eyed man. He was a good deal more complex than he thought, and the small fortune he spent on the town only cemented that belief.

It was now the second day of the visitors' stay, and a feeling of goodwill had quickly rose up in the village despite the brief lull of Miura-san's funeral yesterday. It was New Year's Eve, and Watari-sama had returned from Mitsusando right on time, with a cartload of enough food and supplies to last the winter.

Ichiro sat on the porch of his house, cloth samurai doll in hand, watching the children enjoy the spoils of Ryuuzaki-sensei's fortune. Sparklers cast flickering, colored shadows across the snow, the smells of smoke, rice, and fish wafting through thatched roofs and open doorways. On the far side of the street, Shouko was going door-to-door, performing the first suitable duty she did since she arrived: giving each person a New Year's blessing and a paper charm for their household. How she obtained them or where she'd kept them all this time was beyond Ichiro's understanding, but after watching her summon a magical fire that obliterated a man, almost nothing surprised him about this woman, not even her odd clothing—a black outer coat with the symbol of her shrine embroidered on the back shrouded the otherwise standard red hakama and white robe.

Watari-sama was offering fresh buckets of water to the two horses he and Ryuuzaki-sensei rode in on; Bouzuki's never did come back after Ichiro invariably scared it off, and no one wanted it to, for fear the horse would've been as evil as its former handler. Anything that brought back the memory of Bouzuki wouldn't be tolerated.

However, as sharp-eyed as the young boy was, he didn't notice Ryuuzaki-sensei perched on the front stoop of Ishida-san's house, chewing his thumb behind bent knees.

Something about the boy had caught his interest, even before they had met face-to-face. Ryuuzaki-sensei and his cohorts had come just in time to see Ichiro stand up to Bouzuki. Any other time, any other situation, Ryuuzaki-sensei would have used his overly logical mind and dismissed the action as foolhardy.

However, Ichiro had been able to hold…no, _tame _Red Jigabachi.

To defeat a wild mind, you needed an exceedingly calm mind, a mind void of fear.

Ryuuzaki-sensei continued to chew his thumb, assessing the situation using all the facts, as was his nature, including the information he obtained from Ishida-san…

* * *

…_After all the arrangements had been made, upon Ishida-san's request Ryuuzaki-sensei had asked Watari-sama to carry Ichiro to the elderly woman's house. Shouko left shortly afterward to retrieve Bouzuki's sword. His legs now bound with medicine-soaked rags and the wet withered leaves used to make the concoction, Watari-sama estimated that his injuries would heal almost as quickly as Ryuuzaki-sensei's—at least, on the outside. Unlike Ryuuzaki-sensei, the tip of the blade had penetrated deep, and just like Shouko, Bouzuki had calculated his strikes. No one had wanted to say anything, but there was little possibility Ichiro would ever walk again, at least not for long distances._

_Ryuuzaki-sensei continued to watch the fire smolder in the hearth, even as Ishida-san excused herself to the Miura family and began to leave. Just before she stepped through the threshold, however, Ryuuzaki-sensei spoke._

"_Baa-san, what do you know of that boy?"_

_Ishida-san was startled, but her wrinkles didn't crease an inch. She briskly turned around._

"_I'm more than willing to tell you what I know, but may we talk about it outside? I think Miura-san's had enough disturbances in her home today."_

_Ryuuzaki-sensei looked up, startled, as if he didn't even know he'd been sitting inside a house. He nodded towards the still-surprised woman kneeling on the wooden ledge, slowly rose from his odd sitting position, stuffing his hands in his hakama, and ambled out of the house._

_Ishida-san met him at the gate, finally satisfied, but Ryuuzaki-sensei's eyes were still wide, probing for the answer to his question._

"_I happen to know Ichi-chan very well."_

"_Ichi-chan?" he asked, treating the name as a foreign substance on his tongue._

_Ishida-san nodded. "His formal name is Ichiro Shirakawa. The Shirakawa family led this village along with mine, but they were slaughtered in Bouzuki's first raid on this town during harvest time. My own family died or left the town years ago. That day…Ichiro happened to be sent to the stream near Mitsusando to fetch some water, and he was spared…in my opinion, by the gods."_

_Ryuuzaki-sensei pursed his lips. "Has he always had white hair?"_

"_Ever since he was born. Yes, it's something you don't see often, if at all. Some said it was an omen, some say a blessing. We've never had a proper priest or priestess to divine his future." She stretched her lips thin. "But omen or not, Ichiro is special. He's very intelligent…quiet…reserved. Actually, when he saved me from Bouzuki…that was the first time I saw him show any bravery or resolve of any kind."_

_Ryuuzaki-sensei stopped chewing his thumb._

"_His spirit could not tolerate Bouzuki's."_

_The declaration was solid, unflinching in the winter sky. Ryuuzaki-sensei turned to Ishida-san and nodded towards Red Jigabachi and its lacquered crimson sheath, still lying in the middle of the road untouched. Shouko was currently kneeling in front of it, hands clasped, reciting various prayers as she intermittently laid paper charms on both blade and sheath._

"_That sword is a special kind. So is mine, and so is Watari-sama's, but Bouzuki's in particular…the spirit of that sword was corrupted as well. Many people cannot touch Red Jigabachi for too long without adverse effects. Even I have to have Shouko cleanse it before I take it away. But that boy wrestled it out of his hands and held the blade against his face…"_

_His voice started to lose its monotony as he contemplated these events, and without elaborating on his thoughts he passed through the gate and began walking towards Shouko..._

* * *

A shadow crossed the moon.

Ichiro blinked for a second, and suddenly two dark circles replaced the one giant orb of light. He blinked again before he realized that Ryuuzaki-sensei was coming up the front walk of his house. Without a word, Ryuuzaki-sensei stepped up to the porch and "sat down" next to him…if it could be called that. What he really did was study the porch, raise one leg, gradually pivoted his body around, followed it up with the other leg, until finally he was resting on his haunches, his backside barely touching the wood surface.

"In all the excitement, I forgot to thank you."

Ichiro turned his head, shocked that the man would speak to him so candidly.

"Thank me?"

Ryuuzaki-sensei nodded. "Yes. If you hadn't intervened, more people would have been hurt or killed by Bouzuki."

"I don't know what I was thinking," Ichiro said, his comfort level rising. "I never even held a sword before. I just…didn't want Baa-san to die. The only reason I didn't die was because you and the priestess showed up."

"Many men older and more experienced than you have fallen prey to Bouzuki. Too many samurai focus on death and honor, but without compassion, they're nothing but brutish ogres."

His face hardened, then softened, but Ryuuzaki-sensei never took his eyes off of the moon.

"What do you plan to do after this?"

Ichiro froze.

He had asked himself that question mentally many times—after his parents' deaths, while helping out Ishida-san, while holed up in his house pretend-fighting with his samurai doll, even the day the attack happened, as he stood there helpless with the bucket of water swinging in his hand…but he always stopped short of forcing himself to provide an answer. Now that he heard the question aloud, from someone else's mouth…it made reality feel that much heavier.

He once considered staying, rebuilding the house, sensible plans similar to Ishida-san's…but for what purpose? Out of guilt for his parents? But was that really an issue? He had no more roots here. He had no roots anywhere.

He thought about Bouzuki. His first thought had been to avenge his family, but now that was over, thanks to Ryuuzaki-sensei, and even if he hadn't arrived, many have said his white hair was an omen of purity. He could never be a samurai…

And yet Ryuuzaki-sensei had some sort of purity, some sort of intelligence within him, more than his evil counterpart, at least. He had odd mannerisms, yet he was a legend…

Without thinking, Ichiro held up his index finger and began twirling a lock of his hair.

"If there's more people like Bouzuki in the world, I want to know how to become stronger. Whether I stay here and defend this town or go out and defend others…I want to make sure this never happens to any village again."

For the first time in two days, Ryuuzaki-sensei's lips curved into something of a smile.

"You're not afraid?"

"If I become stronger, I won't have to be."

Ryuuzaki-sensei made an indiscernible noise, then rose back up to his feet in a phantom, graceful movement.

"I see."

His lips still curved, he walked down the short dirt path and through the broken gate.

By now, Shouko finished her New Year's blessings, and was waiting for Ryuuzaki-sensei at Ishida-san's house near the other end of the street. Through strands of long black hair, her face was a picture of anxiety.

"So?" she asked.

"You should be more confident in your predictions, Maki-san. That's why I enlisted your help in the first place."

He put his thumb in his mouth. "His answer…was honest. He's aware of a world outside of himself. And he truly isn't afraid of death…or life."

He smiled. "I've lost a student…and so I also gain a new one."

* * *

(End Chapter 4)

Footnotes:

1. Watari's sword: A _chasen _is a tea whisk used in traditional Japanese tea ceremony. Yeah, I thought that fit. He likes tea, and he seems like a man that would give his sword a nice, quirky (and misleading) name. You didn't think Watari could handle a sniper rifle, could you?

2. The Nakasendo was one of the "Edo Five Routes" created as Tokugawa desired control over other warlords in Japan and instituted the "alternate attendance" policy. The most famous road was the Tokaido Road, which went along the coast from Kyoto to Edo (Tokyo). The Nakasendo, on the other hand, went through the mountains of Honshu.

And I couldn't help myself with Ichiro's hair-twirl; it's supposed to be a symbol of him changing. See you in Chapter 5, everybody…and don't forget to R&R!


	5. Winter: Bittersweet Odango

Title: Ronin Note

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Author's Note: Not much to say except sorry for the delay; around Halloween I had a plot bunny nibbling at my ear, and so I wrote what was SUPPOSED to be a three-part fic for the holiday, "Some Things Are Beyond Near", but it turned into a five-part horror story with a moderately strong following. Then someone inspired me to start a new project: "Bakery Boys", which is still being worked on, and now I've started "Photophobia", a Matt-centric fic and the first really serious fic I've done in a while. For the moment, though, I wanted to come back to my first DN work.

Anyway, we left off where Ichiro (that's Near, remember?) and Ryuuzaki-sensei were making a crucial decision. And to clarify, usually flashbacks are italicized, but in this chapter I have a flashback right before another break to the present-day Near and Linda (refer to Chapter One), so this time the flashback will be bolded to avoid any confusion. Anyway, happy reading! Cue the poem!

* * *

_The village of my youth is gone,_

_New faces meet my gaze;_

_But still the blossoms at thy gate,_

_Whose perfume scents the ways,_

_Recall my childhood days._ – _Hyaku-nin-isshu_, a poem by Tsura-yuki Kino

* * *

The path was silent, Ichiro's hometown as well as the village of Mitsusando already many miles and days behind them. The only sound was the clomping of the horses' hooves on the snow-covered dirt.

On one of the horses, Shouko stared straight ahead, bow and arrow slung on her back, and in front of her, Watari-sama handled the reins, mustache twitching slightly from the cold. Beside them, on the dappled horse, Ryuuzaki-sensei held the reins, Sweet Transience and Red Jigabachi strapped to his sash. Even while riding, he preferred to sit in a precarious position that either the horse didn't mind or was too cold and tired to care about.

Behind him, trying to maintain his balance, was Ichiro.

Nestled in the sleeve of his robe was the samurai cloth doll he'd kept for so many months after Botan Bouzuki first ransacked his village. Keeping one leg steady, he took out the doll and cradled it, looking around for the umpteenth time at his surroundings.

As far as his knowledge of direction and geography could tell him, they were still in the central mountain range of Honshu, but at some point they turned to the northeast. In the short space of a week, he saw things that seemed wonderful to a mind living in a tiny village for most of its life, but it didn't faze his three older traveling companions in the least. The land had flattened out, with the occasional slopes and cliffs suddenly surging along the path and disappearing again, with numerous villages along the way. Some were of considerable size; some were as small as Ichiro's town. Wherever they were, the snow hadn't fallen as hard here, and with New Year's still fresh in everyone's minds, the atmosphere seemed livelier.

Now no one was around. The weak mid-morning sun tried to shine through the canopy of a deep forest, the horses trudging through snow-laden trees. For once, the silence wasn't eerie, like when the villagers had been waiting anxiously for Bouzuki's possible return. It was true peace.

But true peace still couldn't quell Ichiro's uneasiness. He glanced at the doll, thinking of what had transpired a few days ago…

* * *

**"Ichi-chan…"**

**The day after New Year's, Ichiro had holed himself up in his partially demolished house again, planning to return to life as it used to be. Ryuuzaki-sensei had said that he expected to head out after the holiday had passed. There would be no excitement in the village anymore…just back to the same routine of survival.**

**But when he heard Ishida-san call out to him before sunrise, something struck a chord in Ichiro. This never happened unless it was an emergency.**

**Scrambling for his sandals, he tied them on his feet and stepped out to see the old woman at the entrance.**

**"What's wrong, Baa-san?"**

**"Watari-sama and Ryuuzaki-sensei would like to see you. Follow me."**

**Still half-asleep and confused, Ichiro could do nothing but follow Ishida-san outside. The cold twilight air helped to sharpen his senses, and as Ichiro looked around, though the village was on the verge of waking up, no one was actually out of their beds yet. The moon and stars filled the arc of deep blue sky hanging over the narrow valley.**

**Quickly Ishida-san ushered Ichiro into her house, where he found Ryuuzaki-sensei and Watari-sama sitting next to the hearth in an eerie reconstruction of a couple of days ago, when they shared the living room with the Miura family.**

**"Good morning, Shirakawa-san. Sorry to disturb you at such an early hour, but I felt it wouldn't be proper to have this conversation without including you."**

**Ryuuzaki-sensei started chewing on his thumb, and he nodded to Watari-sama, who spoke first.**

**"We were discussing your conduct in the fight with Botan Bouzuki a couple of days ago. Tell me, Shirakawa-san, were you aware that you had been holding a cursed sword?"**

**Ichiro blinked. "A cursed sword?"**

**"All disciples of the House of Watari who've proven themselves in combat carry a sword specially forged to help them use special techniques and illusions. When Bouzuki left the House of Watari, as he used Red Jigabachi for evil purposes, it began to take on the personality of its wielder, and soon it became infamous for turning against anyone other than Bouzuki who held it. What is interesting is that you were able to take it from his hands and hold the blade against his face."**

**"But…that doesn't mean anything," Ichiro muttered. "The sword did turn against me. My legs…"**

**"That was because Bouzuki consciously enacted that act against you. I meant in terms of the sword actually taking it upon itself to kill the holder, or the holder suffering misfortune and illness after they held it. But you didn't. You, Shirakawa-san, have a latent talent."**

**"Do you remember our talk on New Year's?" Ryuuzaki-sensei cut in. "You said you wished to become stronger. I believe you'll be able to do that…if you'd like to accept our invitation to become a student of the House of Watari."**

**Ichiro's eyes widened. He almost asked him to repeat what he said; he thought he'd gone deaf.**

**To be students of the legendary Ryuuzaki-sensei and Watari-sama, to be of a higher class than a mere farmer…that was the ultimate honor.**

**But…**

**"Forgive me, but I can't help but pick up on your thoughts," Ryuuzaki-sensei mumbled, and Ichiro jumped. "Your white hair doesn't signify purity and a life destined to be free of bloodshed. Maki-san told me this."**

**Ishida-san's stare shifted to the wild-haired samurai.**

**"Hair arises from the mind…allegorically, at least, and if it's white, it must mean a pure mind, a mind free to expand and accept knowledge. And whatever you learn, you're free to apply that knowledge to whatever you want. Sometimes battles aren't particularly gory, as you saw when Maki-san and I defeated Bouzuki. Sometimes they will. However, as long as the blood you shed brings justice and peace, it's not necessarily impure."**

**Ryuuzaki-sensei paused, taking his thumb out of his mouth.**

**"And I think Baa-san will do fine on her own."**

**Ishida-san cleared her throat, preparing to break into the conversation.**

**"With Bouzuki gone, and with Ryuuzaki-sensei's kind patronage, we'll be able to survive the winter. I don't have much time left on this earth, anyway, so do not stay on my account. You're a bright boy, Ichi-chan, and you must accept this fortunate turn of fate. You'll be in good hands, and I'm sure your parents will be proud…"**

* * *

"_That was the last time I saw Baa-san," Near told a quiet Linda. "Later that morning, Ryuuzaki-sensei, Watari-sama, and Maki-san prepared to leave with me. The whole town came out to say goodbye, though a few were skeptical about the path I had chosen to take. The only thing I took with me was the samurai doll Baa-san made."_

"_Did you ever go back to the village?" Linda asked._

"_The village as I remembered it ceased to exist. A few years later, Baa-san decided to move everyone to Mitsusando, and Mitsusando continued to prosper. I would come back, but only much later in my life."_

_The elderly man paused, but only to resume twirling his hair._

"_I surmise it took us about a week or so to make the journey from my village to the House of Watari. It was far from Edo, but still a ways from the mountains. Just realizing that there was more to Japan than just my village began to increase my understanding and strengthened my resolve to learn all I could learn from the House of Watari."_

_Near smirked, and Linda gave him a quizzical expression._

"_But from the moment I arrived, I knew my days at the school wouldn't be without its hardships…"_

* * *

Two boys trudged through the spacious front courtyard of the wooden estate, carrying buckets of water back around to the side. The air of the enormous estate was filled with children of all ages practicing with the other teachers of the House of Watari, either outside in the unforgiving chill or inside on polished pine floors. It was business as usual, and yet, everyone was on edge. Several weeks ago, the two masters of the school had left with the priestess of the Shinofuyu Shrine to look for Botan Bouzuki, a disgraced former warrior of the House of Watari. Every time Ryuuzaki-sensei left was taxing on everyone's emotions. They had confidence in him, certainly—he was one of the best…no, _the _best warrior. But there was always a chance…

Suddenly, one of the boys, a blond, turned his head to the gate. The sounds of horses' hooves were growing nearer. His companion, a redhead, stopped and gazed in the same direction.

"What?"

"Sshh!"

The blond immediately silenced the redhead and strained to hear, but something soon came in sight. Two riders…an old man and a young man with rings under his eyes…

"Ryuuzaki-sensei's back!" the blond crowed.

Dropping the bucket and spilling its contents, he broke into a run, yelling this as loud as anyone could hear—which wasn't hard for him. Sighing, the redhead picked up speed and chased after his friend.

* * *

As large as the estate was, it didn't take very long for news of Ryuuzaki-sensei's and Watari-sama's return to circulate around. What was surprising, however, was that Ryuuzaki-sensei immediately called for classes to be interrupted for the time being and for everyone to assemble in the main hall.

Being the two top students, the blond and the redhead had the privilege of sitting up front near Ryuuzaki-sensei's personal retainers: the stolid, silent Mogi-sensei, the stern Aizawa-sensei, the even sterner Yagami-sensei, the ever-impatient Ukita-sensei, the brooding Ide-sensei, and the most recently instated, the energetic yet absentminded Matsuda-sensei.

As the rest of the kids filed in and sat in neat, quiet rows behind them, it was all the blond could do from jumping out of his place and exuberantly welcoming his master, who sat in front of the small crowd with Watari-sama, Shouko, Roger-san, the House's private swordsmith…and a white-haired boy?

For a while, no one spoke.

Ryuuzaki-sensei scanned the crowd warily with his eyes, then motioned to Shouko, who ceremoniously set a white cloth in front of him. From behind his back, he took out Red Jigabachi and placed it on the cloth, setting everyone into a brief flurry of awed whispers.

"As I promised, I wouldn't return to the House of Watari until I came back with both its honor regained and the sword of the one who stole that honor. Now, Botan Bouzuki is dead."

More whispers.

"I don't have much to say, except to apologize to everyone for waiting until this matter got out of hand, and to tell all of you to learn from Bouzuki's example. Whoever you serve, nothing but greed and misery can come to someone who turns their back on their teacher and uses the power they learned for their personal gain. And also, they can bring grief to others. I caught up with Bouzuki in a small village in the western mountains along the Nakasendo. That village he'd terrorized twice, killing almost half of its inhabitants."

Everyone gasped or sighed heavily, lowering their heads.

"Everyone in the village was terrified, even more so when he returned to kill again…except for this boy. He was able to hold Red Jigabachi against Bouzuki."

More whispers, louder and more awe-struck, and then everyone started to pay close attention to the white-haired boy, who started to squirm under the sudden attention.

"In light of his bravery and ability to handle Bouzuki's sword, I've brought him back to study with us. His name is Ichiro Shirakawa. I expect everyone will make him feel welcome."

"Yes, Ryuuzaki-sensei," the students chorused...but Jiro a bit more begrudgingly.

Just because Jiro was the top student didn't mean he was well-liked. He was considered a bully, making sure that no one else was better than him. The only reason he liked Mitsuo was because Mitsuo had no real ambition to be the best; just being second was good enough for him.

To Jiro, every new student was a potential threat against his position. So far, he'd been able to hold Ryuuzaki-sensei's favor…but now here was a boy who already had a leg-up by helping the samurai defeat one of his biggest rivals.

He had to put him in his place.

Ryuuzaki-sensei started chewing his thumb, looking across the front row until he found who he was looking for.

"Jiro. Mitsuo. Please come up here."

The blond—Jiro—plowed right through Aizawa-sensei, nearly tipping him over, while the redhead—Mitsuo—carefully picked his way through Matsuda-sensei, until were both kneeling again, this time a lot closer to their idol.

"As the two top-ranked students, I'll trust you both to take Ichiro under your wing. He'll also be sharing sleeping quarters with you. Please help get him acquainted."

"Yes, Ryuuzaki-sensei!" Jiro almost yelled, smirking. Mitsuo just nodded.

* * *

The rest of the day was simply more introductions for Ichiro, mainly to each and every one of the teachers. Yagami-sensei taught codes, precepts, and literature as well as calligraphy; Aizawa-sensei taught hand-to-hand combat with Ukita-sensei, Ide-sensei taught kendo and kenjutsu techniques, Mogi-sensei was in charge of physical endurance and medicine, and Matsuda-sensei was in charge of meditation. All students also participated in the maintenance and upkeep of the school, even right up to taking turns cooking meals. For those who Ryuuzaki-sensei deemed excelling in all classes, or who he believed had special potential, he would personally teach them special illusions and techniques unique to that student's personality. All the rest of the students eventually got the same one-on-one attention, but it was the special few who got it much earlier than others, and for the time being, only Jiro and Mitsuo had this additional course. Everyone both wanted and didn't want these classes, as it was rumored that these classes were especially difficult, but to take these classes meant a special position in the school, and a promising future.

Ichiro was also introduced to Roger-san. No one met with him until they graduated and either set out to serve other lords or stay on as Ryuuzaki-sensei's retainers. Meeting with Shouko for a divination, then put through a rigorous spiritual cleansing, then an extensive test of the graduate's knowledge, only then did Roger forge a sword that would stay with them forever. Though naming a sword was reserved until it gained a reputation, Watari-sama believed that naming one's sword from the beginning helped establish a deep bond.

Now, after two months of misfortune, and a whirlwind week, Ichiro was now in a new home. The room of his sleeping quarters alone was almost as big as his old hut, and he was sitting on brand new tatami mats. The wood walls shone in the light of a paper lamp, and no gaping holes in the roof let the cold in.

Here, he would finally become stronger. Here, he would realize his purpose.

It felt exhilarating, and at the same time, a little scary.

He sat in the bedroom, contemplating what he was in store for tomorrow, again playing with his doll, when he heard some soft giggling. Suddenly the paper-screen door slid open, and in came his two new roommates. In Jiro's mouth dangled two odango skewers already cleaned of the sticky sweet, while Mitsuo was still working on the second colored ball. (1)

Ichiro eyed them, and then noticed an interesting necklace dangling from Jiro's neck. At the same time, the blond noticed the doll.

"Aren't you a little old for toys?" Jiro sneered.

"…It was a gift from my Baa-san," Ichiro said listlessly, reaching up to twirl a lock of white hair.

"Hey, that was amazing, what Ryuuzaki-sensei told us," Mitsuo finally spoke up. "Even he had trouble with Bouzuki. How'd you do it?"

"I didn't even know what I was doing, really," Ichiro admitted. "The first time Bouzuki came to the village, he killed my parents while I had went to the river nearby, and then he came back the second time, chasing after Anzai-san. He got me in the legs, so I can't walk really well, and he almost killed Baa-san, so I had to do something."

Ichiro shuddered. "It was scary to see. Anzai-san just…splitting in half like that…"

Mitsuo's eyes widened, but now Jiro was even more put off. Though he would never admit it out loud, he was very possessive of Mitsuo's admiration, especially since Mitsuo rarely got interested in anything except for games. He didn't know which was worse: this white-haired newbie stealing his thunder, or his friend.

But he would be diplomatic about it. After all, Ryuuzaki-sensei did say he would have to teach him.

Jiro stomped over, picking his teeth with one of the odango skewers.

"That's what being a samurai's about," he sneered. "Going out and fighting all the bad guys. Sometimes you get hurt, and sometimes you die. You just gotta be powerful enough, and sometimes you don't even need to use a sword. Did you know that?"

Reluctantly, Ichiro shook his head.

"Ryuuzaki-sensei told you about the special classes you get to take if you score high in all the other classes, right?"

"Yes."

"Then watch this."

He took the skewers out of his mouth, and without warning, he ran up to Ichiro and took the doll from his hands. Before Ichiro had time to protest, Jiro threw the doll up a few feet in the air with one hand while positioning the skewers carefully between the fingers of his other hand. With the flick of the wrist, the skewers went flying in straight lines. An audible _swoosh _clipped the air before the skewers stabbed the samurai doll in the gut and pinned it to the opposite wall.

Ichiro immediately got up, horrified, but he didn't get five steps in before the damage to his legs caught up with him again and he fell. Mitsuo walked up to collect the doll for him, but he had a bit of difficulty prying the sticks out, as they were at least five inches in the hard wood planks.

"Ryuuzaki-sensei taught me that a couple of months ago. The Bittersweet Odango technique," Jiro said. "And I'll learn more soon. But I guess it'll take an especially long time for you. If you're still playing with dolls, you're not ready to be a samurai." (2)

He turned to Mitsuo. "Come on, Mitsuo, let's go to bed. We got cooking duty tomorrow."

Ichiro looked down at the two pinpricks in the doll as he crawled back to his sleeping mat. As Mitsuo blew out the lamp, he continued to sit there, amazed at how fast he'd already made a new enemy.

* * *

(End Chapter Five)

Footnotes:

1. Since I'm pretty sure Japan didn't have chocolate back then, I gave Jiro (soon to be known as Mello) another sweet thing to be obsessed over: odango. If by chance you don't know what that is, then look it up on Wikipedia.

2. A little cliche, but throughout the story, various characters will have special named techniques, mainly based on their personality and/or what they did in the anime/manga.

So how will Ichiro cope with his jealous rival and his new classes tomorrow? You'll find the answer in Chapter Six!


	6. Spring: Fighting Fog

Title: Ronin Note

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Author's Note: Okay, so I further fine-tuned the time line of this fic. It's somewhere in the 1800s, but still in the Tokugawa Era (the last years of it, though), which I hope makes the story even more interesting since not much fighting was supposed to be happening in this era…(smiles) Yeah, this fic is pretty much alternate history, but that's what makes it so fun! Maybe it happened, maybe it didn't, but it'd certainly be interesting if it did.

But apparently, no matter how far back we go in history, Mello (Jiro) still can't help but torment poor Near (Ichiro), and as usual Matt (Mitsuo) is stuck in the middle. Happy reading! And remember, footnotes are your friend here!

* * *

"_You tell me to stand still, but I am not walking," he shouted, "whereas you who are walking say you are still. How is it that _you _are standing still but _I _am not?"_

_The Buddha turned round. "My legs move but my mind is still," he said. "Your legs are still but your mind moves all the time in a fire of anger, hatred, and feverish desire. Therefore, I am still but you are not."_

* * *

The gentle peals of a wind bell further complimented the quiet of the meditation hall rather than destroyed it. The gray light of the late March morning cast the room and its inhabitants in a dim glow.

Two months had gone by and Ichiro was already settling in well at the House of Watari. His first encounter with Jiro (whom he now had to call "Jiro-sempai") had only served to strengthen his resolve, but he still carried his doll around with him everywhere, which only gave Jiro ammo for daily teasing. Ichiro had even acquired two new not-so-endearing nicknames on top of the necessary suffix "kohei" added to his last name: "Amagumo" and "Hitsuji". (1) Both were on account of his white hair, but "Amagumo" in particular because, apparently, he always looked so gloomy, scurrying across the floor like a slow-moving rain cloud.

Aside from his new "acquaintances", Ichiro had quickly learned most of what there was to know about the House of Watari: the layout of the estate, mealtimes, cleaning duties, and in particular, how it wasn't so odd for Ryuuzaki-sensei and Watari-sama to be gone for long periods at a time, something Ichiro had decided to ask Mitsuo about one day since he hadn't seen either one since he first arrived at the school. Running the school was often left to Ryuuzaki-sensei's retainers, or even Shouko and Roger if Ryuuzaki-sensei had cause to take his retainers with him.

Today Ryuuzaki-sensei was here, lurking somewhere in the shadows of the large estate, but Ichiro himself was in the first class of the day: meditation. This class took precedence even after breakfast, as it prepared everyone for the rest of their classes and indirectly taught them that calming the mind was a priority over everything else.

Everyone sat along the edge of the room, facing the wall, eyes closed as they concentrated their minds on nothing in particular. Matsuda-sensei walked silently around the perimeter of the room with the _keisaku_, gently smacking students who were getting restless or falling asleep. (2) But there was far from any kind of coherence in the way things were done in the House of Watari. As the school deeply encouraged individuality, each student had their own way of meditating, some of them carrying on the religion they practiced in the lives they had before fate somehow carried them to the House of Watari, or calming their minds via other strange habits.

Mitsuo sat with his feet tucked under his legs, silently counting a bag of smooth black and white _go _stones, setting them in front of him in a straight line, and once he was done, he put them back in the bag, counted a separate bag of wooden _shogi _pieces, and then started all over again with the _go _stones. (3)

Jiro wasn't so much meditating as he was praying. Clutching that very same necklace Ichiro saw the first night they came here (which since then he found out was a Catholic rosary), he knelt on elevated knees and recited prayers he and his lineage had learned from missionaries since years past. What Jiro's own past held, Ichiro didn't know. Apparently that was a particularly sensitive subject for him, and he sure as hell wasn't going to tell his newfound rival.

It took a while for Ichiro to find his own style of meditating, especially since sitting hadn't particularly been a picnic for him at first, but after two months of learning to overcome this disability through Mogi-sensei's endurance training and weekly medical attention, Ichiro could finally rest with one leg bent out awkwardly and the other leg drawn up to his chin. In his hand he clutched his samurai doll, but instead of using it to give form to childhood folklore, he used it in meditation to give form to Ryuuzaki-sensei, whose strength was now his ultimate goal. Ichiro had never meditated before, but from the first day he began to see the benefits, though his teachers vouched that this had no bearing on how he was learning; he still memorized and practiced form with the same speed as his two _sempai_, a fact Jiro hated.

However, he still had one dire weakness, a fact Jiro loved.

He was notoriously weak in hand-to-hand combat.

He wasn't given special treatment because of his legs, and Ichiro hadn't wanted to ask: he already knew he would have to turn this disability into an advantage somehow; the problem laid in figuring out how do it. Aizawa-sensei and Ukita-sensei, for all their stony demeanor, were more than willing to give him extra attention, and Mogi-sensei was trying to fortify his legs and arms so that he could at least scoot himself around when he was too tired to walk, but this still didn't prevent Jiro from throwing him across the courtyard when the students were paired off against each other.

For the past couple of weeks, he decided that his marks were too low to ignore the problem any longer, and so this weakness had been a constant fixture in Ichiro's mind for the past twelve days, even during meditation. He would twirl the doll around in his fingers, working the problem over slowly, trying to point out any weakness in Jiro. Truth be told, though, it was hard, even for someone as bright as him. Jiro simply came at him with too much momentum, too much fire…

Fire…what was fire's weakness?

Water, naturally. But…

_I'm physically weak, so of course I'd try to execute defensive measures such as blocking, and I do. But blocking is like being a rock, and fire scorches earth. Water is open to everything, it "flows", so to speak…so I leave myself open to that onslaught, but then I can't move my legs to dodge if needed._

He twirled the doll again, now only holding it by its shoulder.

_So I need to stay to the ground, but not too firmly. Not like a tree, but like a pond or a lake. But fire…what does it do when it runs across the surface of a lake? It goes out, normally, but not in this case. Jiro-sempai keeps coming across, burning…no, that's only because I'm letting him. It should burn out. It should…_

Ichiro's train of thought was then broken as he suddenly lost the grip on his samurai doll. He watched, surprised, as his thumb overturned the doll, which flopped helplessly into his lap. He stared at his still-pinched hands, still thinking about his problem.

And then…

_It should turn to steam…fog…_

"Tch!"

Ichiro (and a few other children) suddenly glanced over as Matsuda-sensei tapped Jiro on the shoulder. It didn't hurt as much as he was letting on; he just liked being the center of attention. Matsuda-sensei, however, always being the sensitive one, still winced and was preparing to apologize, but Jiro simply waved him off.

In that instant, the two boys' eyes met. Whenever this happened, Jiro immediately tried to glare him down with blazing blue eyes, and Ichiro would simply stare at him dumbly with tarnished gray eyes before looking away.

But as a long-awaited answer arose in Ichiro's mind, his stare had a bit more light in it this time.

*=*=*=*=*

Most of the snow had already melted.

It was still a little chilly outside despite the days drawing closer to spring, but at the very least the winds had died down. An hour had already gone by since hand-to-hand combat training started, and Aizawa-sensei and Ukita-sensei had paired everyone up for practice rounds before classes temporarily concluded for lunch.

And yet again, Ichiro had been paired up with Jiro.

But something felt different about today. For one thing, Ichiro had decided to be off by himself, not even deigning to practice with Mitsuo, and for the next fifty minutes he had simply been staring off hard into the distance, concentrating on an invisible target while constantly sweeping his arms through the air in swift arcs. He practiced adjusting his knees, exercising his shoulder muscles, but above all, trying to keep his legs level with the ground.

Now, Ichiro was realistic; he knew it would take more practice to fully perfect this technique. Today would simply be a practice run, and if it didn't work, he would simply think over another tactic.

Now, like all the previous days, the two rivals were the last to spar. Aizawa-sensei stepped forward, one hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

"Okay, everyone. Final match-up: Ichiro Shirakawa versus Jiro Katsumoto. As _sempai _to Shirakawa-san, Katsumoto-san will make the first move."

Jiro smirked malevolently. Ichiro's face remained passive.

"Are you two ready?"

Both nodded, Jiro a little more vigorously, and Aizawa signaled. The other students winced in sympathy to Ichiro in advance. Baring his teeth, Jiro rushed forward with all the fury of a branded bull, and yet…

Ichiro wasn't throwing up his arms in defense. He was just standing there…or so it appeared. His mind raced as he studied Jiro's position and where he focused his power. He was planning to use his upper body, only letting his legs choose the direction of where he wanted to throw Ichiro, his arms stretched out recklessly in order to grab Ichiro's arms.

_You're not fire._

Ichiro lowered his head, his arms sticking to his side. He shifted one knee forward.

_You're fog…_

He turned slightly to the side, and Jiro came up to him, his rosary smacking against the side of Ichiro's cheek just once…

_And fog rolls over water._

Mitsuo's eyes widened.

Everyone gasped.

Just as Jiro was about to make a mad grab at the younger boy's torso (or not, since Ichiro decided to keep his arms low so Jiro wouldn't have anything to grab at), the blond's stomach arched over Ichiro's head, which lifted, giving him just the right leverage. His arms came up in that perfect arc that he had been practicing for the past fifty minutes, catching the forearms of Jiro's outstretched arms.

Suddenly, Jiro became weightless, caught off-guard by Ichiro's new move...

Summoning all his strength into one knee and arm alone, Ichiro shifted his center of gravity and effortlessly flipped Jiro over his shoulder, behind his back, and onto the grass. (4)

The courtyard was steeped so deep in stunned silence, nothing came after the dull thud of Jiro's back hitting the ground.

At least, not for two minutes.

Led by Mitsuo, all the students suddenly surged forward and circled around Ichiro, cheering and congratulating him. Aizawa-sensei and Ukita-sensei stayed at a distance, still too shocked to give proper constructive criticism.

But they didn't have to.

Jiro clambered up, brushing off his black robe, ready to explode, when he spotted someone out of the corner of his eye.

"Ryuuzaki-sensei!"

Jiro's cry shocked everyone into silence again, and the two teachers turned around, quickly bowing low. Though he had just gotten up, Jiro fell to the soft dirt again, executing an even more humble bow. The throng of students separated from Ichiro and bowed, as well. Ryuuzaki-sensei didn't think much of all this attention, however; he was never one for accolades. He simply shuffled forward, chewing his thumb as his other hand was stuffed into the slit of his hakama, bare feet squishing in the frosty mud.

"I was observing the class from one of the side porches. Forgive me if I'm intruding."

"No, not at all, Ryuuzaki-sama. We were just concluding class for the day," Aizawa-sensei assured. Ryuuzaki-sensei grunted and came to a stop in front of Ichiro, who looked a little surprised, but his almost-dead impression otherwise intact. The white-haired boy looked up at him.

"As I told you, at the end of every day, all of my retainers meet with me and report on everyone's progress. Most have said very good things about you, Shirakawa-san, but it was my understanding that you were having difficulty in this class in particular."

"I was," Ichiro admitted.

"Hm. But it seems you've overcome it, finally."

Everyone then jumped back and gasped as Ryuuzaki-sensei abruptly grabbed the hilt of Sweet Transience and swept the blade out in front of him, its edge only two feet from Ichiro's face. He took his thumb out of his mouth and grasped the handle with his other sword.

"It should go without saying that all samurai have to hold their swords with both hands. I, however, learned the Bloodless Hands technique from Watari-sama. You saw this in my fight with Bouzuki; he learned it as well."

Without blinking, Ryuuzaki-sensei then let go of the sword, which continued to hover in the air on its own. All the other students had seen this before, too, but they still couldn't help but 'ooh'.

"It's become the signature move of the House of Watari, and one of the most difficult techniques to master. And as talented and resourceful as my retainers are, even none of them have learned the technique yet. However, it isn't simply a matter of talent and concentration. It's a matter of intent."

"Intent?" Ichiro asked.

"Yes. Bouzuki learned Bloodless Hands because he wished to exploit the mental weakness of other warriors. I learned Bloodless Hands because I wished to overcome my own physical weakness."

Jiro gaped at him. Ryuuzaki-sensei, his perfect idol, was admitting that he _wasn't_ perfect…and he was admitting it not to his top student, but to _Ichiro_.

"No one bothers to ask why I rarely hold my sword with my hands. They just assume it's a special trick I learned just to prove myself better than other warriors, but that's far from the case, a product of ignorance and pride. You see—" and at this point he sheathed his sword and stretched out his hands so everyone could see them "—my fingers are weak. Always have been from a young age. However, I learned to overcome this by the Bloodless Hands technique and using the strength I _do _have, in my legs, to fight."

He started chewing his thumb again.

"Now that I've been assured that you can handle it...Shirakawa-san, in four months I would like you to come to the rear annex of the school after dinner with Jiro and Mitsuo. I feel that you'll soon be able to benefit from one-on-one classes with me, and that will also mark six months since you've been here. However, it'll still be six more months after that when you will finally be on equal standing with your _sempai_."

"Yes, Ryuuzaki-sensei," Ichiro affirmed quietly.

"What d'you know?" Mitsuo said jokingly. "Next year we might be calling you _sempai_, Ichiro!"

Before anyone could miss him, Jiro walked away, fingering his rosary and muttering to himself angrily. He was rapidly losing ground, losing favor with Ryuuzaki-sensei and Mitsuo. And what if he _did _have to call Ichiro "sempai" soon?

The one thing about fires...they were hard to contain.

(End Chapter Six)

Footnotes:

1. Yeah, a lot of Japanese words. Sorry, I'll explain them now if you don't know. "Sempai" and "kohai" are used to distinguish a senior or upperclassman from their juniors. The best examples can be seen in Japanese schools, where students of higher and lower grades, or those who are on various sports teams, refer to each other as such. Sempai are usually in charge of teaching and protecting the kohai, and the kohai usually emulate and 'serve' the sempai, so to speak, until they can get on their own two feet. As for Ichiro's nicknames, "amagumo" means rain cloud, and "hitsuji" means sheep.

2. A _keisaku _is a wooden stick used in Zen meditation, usually with monks in a temple. The one leading the meditation session walks around the hall, and anyone in meditation can request to have their concentration renewed by offering up his shoulder and holding his hands in prayer-position. The lead monk then _gently _hits the person with the stick. It's not punishment, since the stick isn't really supposed to hurt; just encouragement. Also, I imagine that the House of Watari practices the Rinzai school of Zen Buddhism. Generally speaking, it's more intellectual and it's the sect more closely associated with samurai.

3. Basically, a "feudal Japan" translation of Matt's (Mitsuo's) obsession with video games. Shogi and go are Japanese board games, similar to chess or checkers (except a lot more complicated). Go is played with black and white pieces, and shogi is played with wooden pieces with characters marked on top of them. Two examples are the anime _Hikaru no Go _and the episode of Samurai Champloo when Jin spent the entire time playing shogi with some random guy, and ironically ending up being the only person to earn any money.

4. Technically, the grappling move Ichiro used on Jiro was from the martial art of _aikido_, which emphasizes using your opponent's weight and power against them as well as defensive moves, but _aikido _wasn't an officially structured martial art (and not known by that name) until around the beginning of the twentieth century.

See you in Chapter Seven!


	7. Summer: Pure Red

Title: Ronin Note

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Author's Note: Though we still got a ways to go until the story picks up the pace, I actually won't focus too much on Near's time at the House of Watari; a couple more stories, but the majority of the first part of the story will focus on Ryuuzaki-sensei.

Oh, and I forgot to mention—since Chapter Five, each chapter about the House of Watari has focused on a season of the year. "Bittersweet Odango" took place in winter, and "Fighting Fog" was in spring. Now this chapter is in summer, and it'll go full-circle back to winter, covering Ichiro's first full year at the House of Watari, and then we'll change tack.

And again, thank you, everyone who reads, reviews, and faves. This'll be quite a project, and I need the support.

So read on!

* * *

"_Yamamoto Kichizaemon was ordered by his father Jin'emon to cut down a dog at the age of five, and at the age of fifteen he was made to execute a criminal. Everyone, by the time they were fourteen or fifteen, was ordered to do a beheading without fail…_

…_A long time ago this practice was followed, especially in the upper classes, but today even the children of the lower classes perform no executions, and this is extreme negligence. To say that one can do without this sort of thing, or that there is no merit in killing a condemned man, or that it is a crime, or that it is defiling, is to make excuses…"_ – _Hagakure_, Yamamoto Tsunetomo

* * *

The heat of August came down on the House of Watari like an overpowering wave, with little relief for its hard-studying students.

At nights, the _shoji _screens in the bedchambers would be left open to let in the breezes, the sound of wind bells hanging from the eaves chiming over the buzz of insects. Everyone became light sleepers as the humid nights passed, adjusting themselves every hour or so, and once in a while a loud 'swish' would fill the air as Jiro used his Bittersweet Odango technique to impale a bug.

Behind the horse stalls, there was a path that cut through the forest and led to the banks of a small stream. Ichiro visited this place sometimes in the mornings, either to get away from Jiro or simply to think, and he selfishly thought of it as his personal place whenever other students weren't taking their baths here, so he was surprised to find that it had long since been a cool summer retreat for the House of Watari, including Ryuuzaki-sensei himself.

Even the classes' workload seemed more difficult. If nothing else, the House of Watari was strict; the world didn't stop for summer heat, and in fact served as a lesson to endure extreme conditions. Certainly all the heat had something to do with the changing attitudes, but Ichiro could actually pinpoint a valid, if not vague reason.

It had been four months since March, since the day when Ryuuzaki-sensei gave him permission to attend his special instruction.

Whenever Jiro wasn't overhearing, Mitsuo would drop hints about what he was in store for. Just as Jiro was perfecting Bittersweet Odango, Mitsuo was learning Black Stone Trap. One day, he demonstrated it on Ichiro (with his permission, of course) to show how it worked. Using his _go _stones, Mitsuo cast an enchantment on them before throwing them in the path of an advancing attacker. One black stone set a person backward, one white stone sent a person forwards, one white stone and one black stone together forced them to sidestep, and a circle of black stones completely immobilized them. (1)

Apparently, a warrior's techniques were tailored specifically to their personality and strengths. They learned "weak" techniques first, then moved up to strong ones. It would only be a few more months until Jiro moved on to Tears of Hell, and another year for Mitsuo until he learned Shogi Suicide. They would continue in this way until, finally, they were deemed competent enough to learn even more advanced techniques such as Bloodless Hands.

However, a strange air of gloom hung over the excitement. Ichiro's perceptions were keen, and so he knew there was something Mitsuo wasn't telling him, either out of fear or concern. Even Jiro grew less impish as the day came nearer.

Finally, one morning after breakfast, Yagami-sensei told Ichiro, Jiro, and Mitsuo to go out to the stables, where Ryuuzaki-sensei was waiting for them.

That morning, misty from a quick and heavy night rain, only added to the sense of foreboding. After washing their dishes, the three stumbled out into the brightening twilight, blinded by layers of fog.

"Keep up, Amagumo. As white as your hair is, we can just as well lose you out here," Jiro commanded.

Saying nothing, Ichiro gently climbed off the edge of the porch and tottered along, keeping an eye on Jiro's eye-catching blond hair.

Ryuuzaki-sensei was alone, rigging up a large bundle to the horse, Sweet Transience tied to his sash. He spoke only to tell Ichiro to mount the horse, and telling Jiro and Mitsuo to walk "as they did always".

For the first time in months, Ichiro saw the sight of the school disappear as they left the front courtyard and went east through the other side of the forest. The journey was quiet, save for the occasional moving of whatever was inside the bundle behind Ichiro.

About halfway through, another path widened somewhat on the right-hand side, passing under two pillars with two horizontal crossbeams, every spot of its wood painted a vibrant red. The path disappeared into the forest, and after that, nothing else could be seen, as if it led to the shadowy realm of Yomi. (2)

"That's the Shinofuyu Shrine," Ryuuzaki-sensei muttered, noticing Ichiro's curious gaze. "Maki-san officiates there with her husband, the head priest Penbar-san. It's small, but it's still one of the biggest shrines in this area."

About an hour later, the forest gave way to an open, grassy field, a town substantially bigger than Mitsusando in the middle of it. Mitsuo ventured to whisper to Ichiro that the name of the town was Shi-no-tani. (3) Surrounding it were acres of rice fields and actual gates with watchmen. Even in the early morning, everyone was awake and working. Barefoot women and children stooped over green sprouts in the mud, cultivating a crop that often paid the tax collectors before feeding the local townspeople.

Ichiro always guessed that Ryuuzaki-sensei had a reputation; this fact was only confirmed when the watchmen greeted him respectfully and immediately let him enter. As their tiny procession came through town, this reverent yet fearful attitude seemed to permeate throughout the population. Whether holding heavy loads, handling horses, or simply going to the marketplace, everyone who found themselves in the way immediately sidestepped them, even treating Ryuuzaki-sensei's students with the same admiration.

All of a sudden, however, Ichiro felt like they were intruding. The feeling in the pit of his stomach only grew worse.

They reached the other end of the town and left through the west gate, then a few more minutes until they reached another enclosed space. Another small knot of guards standing watch spotted Ryuuzaki-sensei and immediately straightened their posture.

"Good morning, Ryuuzaki-sama," the bearded one saluted. "Here for practice again, I take it?" (4)

Ryuuzaki-sensei nodded and climbed off the horse, Ichiro tentatively following him. The dark-haired samurai untied the bundle and heaved it onto one of his hunched shoulders.

"How many do you have?" Ryuuzaki-sensei asked.

"About eleven. Most of them are for theft."

Ryuuzaki-sensei chewed his thumb. "That should be enough. Bring out four to start."

"Yes sir." The bearded one turned to his subordinates. "You, tend to Ryuuzaki-sama's horse."

As the guards rushed about, Ryuuzaki-sensei calmly shuffled through the entrance, and the three boys automatically followed. Beyond the gate lay a dusty patch of land, with very few grasses growing on the edges where the land met the walls. A short row of slender wooden posts stuck out of the ground like cacti standing isolated in a desert. Another pair of doors behind these posts led to what looked like covered stables.

Ichiro looked around cautiously, at one point spotting the second guard going into them, but only until he looked at the ground did the full force of the unlabeled horror welling up within him for the past four months hit him in the gut.

At first he thought it was mud from last night's rain, but when he kicked up a lighter-colored patch of dirt, it came up dusty, already dried by the culminating heat of the day.

So the dark, irregular splatters on the ground and wooden posts were really…

"As I said, Shirakawa-san, I think you're doing well enough in your studies that you'll benefit from beginning to learn the special techniques that mark a samurai of the House of Watari. However, there are consequences that come with these powers."

"Consequences?"

"It's been relatively peaceful in this country lately, but that's no excuse for being lax. There's still always the chance that you will have to fight, and so, there's always the possibility of facing death. From founding his school, Watari-sama strove to teach techniques that minimized the possibility of bloodshed, but for all one's careful planning, whether or not there is gore, whether or not your opponent was of the truest evil, you still have to face up to the responsibility that you're taking a human life."

His deep black eyes bored down on Ichiro, who was almost afraid to stare back. During that short speech, Ryuuzaki-sensei's demeanor had changed dramatically.

"This is the Shi-no-tani Execution Grounds. Before any student takes my lessons, I bring them here to make sure that they can handle what the future holds for them." (5)

Ryuuzaki-sensei crouched down, stooping over the bundle he had brought with him, and untied the string. Inside lay three swords—not the bamboo ones they used in their classes with Ide-sensei, but gleaming slivers of cold metal sheathed in plain, unvarnished black wood, the block-like handles indistinguishable from the sheath. All of Jiro's mischievousness transformed into hardened determination as he picked up one of the swords, keeping the sheath on as he swung it slightly to get a feel for it. Mitsuo, as usual, looked as indifferent as ever.

The awkward silence was then broken as the guards brought in the four criminals Ryuuzaki-sensei specified. Dirty, clothed in tattered robes, the expressions on the condemned faces ran the gamut, from hopelessness to anger to marginal insanity. Strangely enough, none seemed to resist as the guards tied them to the posts with ropes; they had accepted their fate from the moment they had laid eyes on Ryuuzaki-sensei.

"Be grateful your execution will be delivered by the honorable Ryuuzaki-sama and his students," one of the guards told the prisoners. Tying done, the guards bowed deeply and shuffled off to the side.

Ryuuzaki-sensei stepped forward, his hand on Sweet Transience, his eyes scanning the line for the one he wanted, until finally his gaze rested on the one on the far left.

Ichiro's mouth suddenly felt dry.

Jiro's eyes gleamed.

Mitsuo's lips twitched.

It happened so suddenly.

The blade flashed in the morning sun, and his arm moved so fluidly that the three boys could tell right away that he hadn't bothered to use Bloodless Hands. As the blade swung around and reappeared over Ryuuzaki-sensei's opposite shoulder, something horrifying happened in-between.

The prisoner that had been wriggling from a knotted rope a few seconds ago now had a missing head.

* * *

"_One of the images that reoccurs in my mind the most vividly was when Ryuuzaki-sensei beheaded that man," Near murmured. "All I remember is blood spraying in every direction, staining his hair, his robe, his face. The head looked as if it hung in the air for a few seconds before landing hard on the ground, like a ball. The man's eyes, his mouth…they were still open."_

_Linda gulped, staring at her limp pencil with widened eyes. She wasn't sure if she could bring herself to draw that particular scene._

"_I think that was what ultimately changed me," Near continued. "Not my parents' deaths, not Bouzuki...I knew Ryuuzaki-sensei was a samurai, and I had imagined him defeating enemies with my doll countless times, but not until I went to the Shi-no-tani Execution Grounds did I finally realize what I had promised I would be."_

"…_So what did you do?" Linda asked quietly._

"_I did all that I could do. I had to put fear aside. Otherwise, my coming to the House of Watari would have been meaningless."_

_Near sighed deeply. "Jiro went first, then Mitsuo, then me. Jiro seemed almost happy to do it; he even practiced more precise cuts such as 'cutting the sleeve' before he beheaded the second prisoner. Mitsuo wasn't as exuberant, but that seemed to be an integral part of his behavior. As for me…" (6)_

* * *

Ichiro lay floating in the six-foot deep river, empty gray eyes gazing not at the straggly canopy and the moonlight filtering through the leaves, but _through _them. The cool water seeped through his white robe, weaving in and out of partially immersed toes and fingers, fanning out his flour-colored hair. The gentle swish of the stream filled his ears, the water itself tickling his earlobes. The summer evening weather practically turned to autumn within the cool water.

But as long as he wanted to stay in the water (and it had been about an hour so far), he couldn't wash away his memories of that day.

His basic image of Ryuuzaki-sensei didn't change. He didn't think he was any more evil or horrible; it merely gave another dimension to his personality…a _darker _dimension.

Right after he beheaded the criminal, Ryuuzaki-sensei had looked over his shoulder at him, Jiro, and Mitsuo, instructing them to take their turn. It was one of those profound moments that wouldn't have been as profound if Ichiro hadn't truly been paying attention to every little detail. The angle of the sun and shadows, the messy line of blood scarring his face like a single stroke on paper made by a calligraphy brush, Sweet Transience hung over his shoulder, blood dripping from the sharpest end of the sword…

There was the kind Ryuuzaki-sensei he had known for the past six months…and then there had been _that _Ryuuzaki-sensei. The reason they called him "sensei" and "sama".

Then there was the head beside the limp body. Looking at him as if pleading to spare his fellow criminals. Blood and tissue and sinews and bone sagging outwards from the severed neck.

It had felt so surreal, especially when Jiro and Mitsuo took their turn. Even if they had been criminals (and Ichiro had known beforehand the consequences of crime in this society), it was as if no one had died in front of them.

Technically speaking, Ichiro did wonderfully for his first time. From his classes with Ide-sensei, he had learned to strike a target while sitting and rolling around the ground, and if needed, to spring up on his feet long enough to hit higher on the body. He applied all this knowledge to his experience at the execution grounds, keeping his mind perfectly blank, and two seconds later it was over.

Well, "over" in one sense of the word.

Originally he had meant to wash up again before going to bed, but then he had took a good look at himself in the reflection of the stream, and the image of the moment when he rushed over to the stream right after they returned from the execution grounds sprang to mind.

Red mixed in with white. Purity mixed with impurity. And it would only get worse. He would graduate, become a samurai, and face death every single day.

Everything felt wrong all of a sudden. For the first time since he had arrived, he felt like he didn't belong at the House of Watari.

A bush rustled.

Ichiro splashed around until he had his feet in the water and was treading water, suddenly alert. The bush rustled again. Ichiro sank slightly until he was almost invisible, watching to see who would emerge.

Suddenly, Ryuuzaki-sensei materialized at the riverbank. The two shared a long, awkward stare, and then the dark-haired man entered the water, fully clothed and barefoot. He let himself sink completely before letting his head come up again, his hair now slicked down and tamed.

"Evening baths are rather relaxing, especially in this hot weather," Ryuuzaki-sensei commented idly. Ichiro hummed an affirmative answer, and for the next five minutes there was silence again, until Ryuuzaki-sensei broke it again with a seemingly casual remark:

"Your eyes were closed."

Ichiro looked at him quizzically. "Ryuuzaki-sensei?"

"At the Shi-no-tani Execution Grounds. Just before you swung the sword, you closed your eyes. The swing itself followed form well, as good as anyone who can swing a sword on two legs for more than five minutes, but as I said, the House of Watari is a school that believes mental power predetermines a battle beforehand."

He put his thumb in his mouth again, his eyelids lowering until he had a tired, yet strict expression on his face.

"If that prisoner had been an able opponent, you would have died."

The words struck Ichiro's chest like arrows. He sank slightly again, as if the criticism was dragging him down towards the riverbed.

"However, I think fear had very little to do with it."

Ichiro's forehead creased. "But I felt afraid."

"It was merely a change in circumstance. When you faced Bouzuki, you didn't flinch. That was because there wasn't time to think or plan. Out of choices, facing death immediately, your mind entered perfect emptiness, and your actions flowed out perfectly. However, when you're on some level anticipating the event beforehand, your mind begins to think, and your movements become mechanical, no matter how well they're carried out."

Ryuuzaki-sensei took another brief dip become resuming his speech. "A very strange paradox. You're not so much afraid of killing as afraid of gaining an unfair advantage, because then battle becomes fruitless to you. This'll have to be something you'll need to overcome in the coming years—being able to bring an empty mind to every scenario."

Ichiro sighed heavily. "So does that mean I'll have to wait for your classes?"

"Hm? No, they'll begin tomorrow, as I planned. It's just that now you've found your weakness. As strange as it sounds, identifying that is what will make you strongest."

"Like your fingers…"

Ryuuzaki-sensei glanced at his hands, now wet and beginning to prune.

"Yes."

Ryuuzaki-sensei paddled through the water until he touched the riverbank, then climbed out.

"You should get some sleep. I think you're clean enough already; tomorrow we'll work on cleaning your mind."

* * *

(End Chapter Seven)

Footnotes:

1. Mitsuo's (Matt's) first technique: Black Stone Trap. It's not set on any real rules of the actual game (it sounded confusing as heck when I looked it up), but if black surrounds white on the playing board, they really can't move.

2. Yomi: not exactly hell…more like an underworld. Based on Japanese myth; one of the first two deities/creators of Japan, Izanami, descended here after dying in childbirth, and became its ruler.

3. Shi-no-tani: literally means "valley of death".

4. I should've explained this earlier. You may have noticed that some say "Ryuuzaki-sensei" and others say "Ryuuzaki-sama". Those closer to him, including his own students, call him the former (which means "teacher"), and everyone else, including his retainers, call him the latter (which means "lord"), since technically he became of high enough rank to be a leader of the House of Watari. He personally prefers to be called "sensei", because he's not much for prestige and all that.

5. As told by the excerpt at the start of the chapter, this actually wasn't uncommon. From a young age, those training to be samurai had to kill. A common way this was done was by going to the local town's execution grounds and choosing out condemned criminals to "practice on". Gruesome, huh?

6. "Cutting the sleeve" is a name for a particular type of cut. It means to sever the opponent's hand from its wrist.

See you in Chapter Eight, everyone!


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